


The Violet Hour

by littleramblings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (kinda), (well handjobs but it still counts okay), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Prison, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Underage Harry, Underage Relationship(s), Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleramblings/pseuds/littleramblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the age of twenty, Louis has shackles on his wrists and speaks to his boyfriend from across a table, wearing sweats and an orange prison shirt. At the age of fourteen, Harry can do nothing but hold his hand and wish they were never caught.</p><p>Or; that underage fic where they actually do get caught. Louis gets sent to prison and Harry visits as often as he can because the only crime they committed was falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry is fourteen when he first meets Louis. Wonderful, beautiful Louis who gives him a free bottle of Fanta whenever he comes into the shop to buy sandwiches for his lunch. He flirts, of course he does. He's a teenager and Louis' quite easy on the eyes, has a fantastic arse and is probably one of the sweetest people he knows - besides Niall, of course. Niall's a cupcake.

 

It's sort of a tradition, now. Every morning Harry pulls on his school uniform - a horrible unflattering thing consisting of a plain shirt, black trousers and a black blazer with yellow piping around the collar - shakes out his curls and heads down to the shop with two quid in his pocket. Louis smiles, a bright little thing that causes crinkles around his eyes and a fluttering in Harry's stomach. He may only be fourteen, but he's pretty sure that if given the chance, this is what love could feel like.

 

*

 

“I'm twenty, Harry.” Louis tells him, one day. The place is empty, just like it normally is at 8:17 in the morning, but Harry knows this isn't going to be another 'smile, flirt, fall a little bit harder' kind of day. “I'm doing an open university course in teacher training and I enjoy painting with watercolours.”

 

_Your eyes are a watercolour,_ Harry thinks, but he stays quiet. They're both silent, then. Louis' worrying his bottom lip, the pink flesh turning white under the pressure, and Harry wants to know what colour they'd turn after being pressed against his.

 

“You're fourteen and you go to the school down the road. You want to take GCSE music because you like to sing, law, sociology and drama because why the fuck not. You -” his breath catches in his throat, cheeks turning pink and he keeps glancing around, keeps wanting to make sure they're alone even though it's pretty obvious they are. “You're going to be quite the catch, what with your eyes and hair and... and you should be getting with people your own age. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

 

Harry frowns, eyebrows furrowing. “I'm not a child. Fourteen is only two years off of sixteen and sixteen is legal. Two years is nothing, Lou - ”

 

Louis shakes his head, muttering “no, no, no.” as he closes his eyes. Harry reaches across, fingertips grazing over the back of the hand that rests on the counter top and that's when Louis jolts, taking a step back and pulling his hand away as though Harry's touch was ice. “No.” he repeats, and this time it's firmer, almost final.

 

Harry skips first lesson that day, goes to the boys toilets and promises himself he's not going to cry because it wasn't love yet, anyway. He's grumpy through maths, even worse through English and writes on his test that Cathy was a self-centred bitch who didn't give a fuck about Heathcliff's happiness, as long as she was respected by society. (He gets a 0 and a warning for that but he can't even bring himself to care.)

 

*

 

Over the next few weeks he buys lunch from the school canteen. Monday's pasta is clumpy, Wednesday's jacket potato still hard, and he pushes his plate towards Niall with a look of disgust as his friend eats it nonetheless. He misses Louis.

 

It's a weird thing to say, considering the only conversation the two ever had never lasted more than ten minutes, touching only briefly and sharing shy smiles after comments that some may deem as a little too familiar, but it's true. Visiting the shop - visiting Louis - had become a part of Harry's day, a part of him, and oh how he wanted those ten minutes back.

 

He kisses a girl on the second week - out behind the bike sheds with the wind blowing hair into both their faces. It's warm and chaste, Dana's lips being a little sticky with clear gloss and neither really know where to put their hands since it's a first for the both of them. It could have been far worse than it really was; he's heard stories from Niall about braces and trapped food, smelly breath technique that sucks more than a porn star on set, but to Harry it's absolutely horrible. When they part, he wants to be sick. His stomach churns with guilt and his chest is feeling uncomfortably tight. He hasn't cheated - him and Louis were never a thing - but it feels like he has, and he hates it. He hates being so addicted to a person that he can't even have a decent wank without blue eyes and floppy brown hair invading his thoughts.

 

By week three he's had enough. So much so that he leaves five minutes before last lesson begins, climbing over the old brick wall with his blazer over his shoulder and practically runs down the road, dodging old ladies and their dogs who shoot him accusatory looks. He'd apologise if he weren't in such a rush.

 

It's 2:20 by the time he gets inside, bell chiming as the door swings open, and Louis looks up from where he's putting Whoopsie stickers on sandwiches, stunned and (dare Harry think it) pleasantly surprised.

 

He opens his mouth, probably to scold him and tell him he should be in school, in class, anywhere other than here, but Harry doesn't give him the chance. Instead, he crosses the space between them in four quick strides, grabbing onto the taller man's collar with both hands as he pulls him down to kiss him.

 

It's messy. Teeth clash and the angles not quite right, their noses bump and Harry's not sure what to do with his tongue, seeing as Louis' lips are parting just so, but then he tilts his head a little more to the left and it's the closest thing to perfect Harry's ever felt. Louis' got stubble, he's never really noticed it before but it's there, now, brushing against Harry's own face, sure to leave a burn and Harry doesn't care. He's being gripped by the hips, thumbs sliding under his school shirt to press against smooth skin, rubbing in soft circles. And then they're moving.

 

Louis guides them backwards, lips never parting but Harry can hear the swing of a door - knows that they're now out back, if the slight drop in temperature is anything to go by. He feels free, lighter than air but at the same time heavier than one of those statues in ancient Greece. He feels grounded, like everything in this moment is right, and that spurs him on to take control of the kiss, to lead it in a filthier direction, pushing Louis against the brick wall and smirking as the older of the two breathes a soft 'oof' of surprise into his mouth.

 

“You'll be the death of me, Harry Styles. I swear you will.” Louis moans, tilting his head back as Harry kisses along his jaw, down his neck until he stops over the vein and proceeds to suck a bruise into the skin until it's red and sensitive.

 

“Don't worry,” he smiles, teeth grazing the newly tender flesh. “I promise not to break your heart.”

And it's so honest, so sincere that Louis can do nothing but curl his fingers around the nape of Harry's neck, teasing the few strands of hair that brushes against them, and bring him up for another kiss. It's sweet, now. Shy and almost delicate, Harry's small hands framing Louis' face and Louis' right arm wrapped snugly around his waist. It's starting to feel a little like home.

 

*

 

It takes them three weeks to finally have a date. Three weeks of sly and breathless kisses, pressing against each other through too many layers of clothes until the clock chimes half past eight and Harry groans, knowing he's late to school but really not caring at all. On their third Friday, though, Louis bites his lip and shifts his weight onto his left leg as he scans through Harry's sandwiches. (It's Ham and Cheese, today.)

 

“What are you doing over the weekend?” he asks suddenly, breaking the silence and causing Harry to look up from where his eyes had been raking over the sight before him - tight jeans clinging to toned thighs and an even tighter grey shirt outlining that soft stomach wonderfully.

 

“Erm – ” in actual fact, Harry had planned to do absolutely nothing. Like most kids his age, he was prepared to have a lie in, maybe complete a few rounds of whatever game was currently in the X-box, and jerk off in the shower pretending it was Louis' hand on him, instead. “Not much.”

 

“So...” Louis looked down at the counter, tapping his fingers against the chipped wood in a familiar mantra. “Come over?” he bites his lip, glancing up at Harry from under long eyelashes and damn those blue, blue eyes. He looks so hopeful, so nervous that Harry can't keep him waiting a second longer.

 

“Yes.” he breathes, a smile spreading over his own features - one dimple showing. “Yeah, of course.”

 

Louis grins like he's won the fucking lottery, and that morning Harry leaves the shop with a hickey blooming just under his collar and an address saved safely away in his phone. Saturday morning couldn't come quickly enough.

 

*

 

Saturday morning, as it turns out, comes a lot faster than Harry thought it would. He wakes up to the buzzing of his alarm and has a mini heart-attack because shit, today he's going over to Louis' and he doesn't even have an outfit picked out yet.

 

Taking far too long on the shower, he washes his hair, makes sure he smells of nothing but soap and fruity shower gel, and spends a few minutes contemplating whether or not he should start ''neatening himself up'' a little. It's not like he's really expecting to get laid, he knows Louis respects him and would never push him into anything he didn't want to do or wasn't ready for, even though at fourteen Harry's bound to let his hormones think for him, but he still wants to be prepared. You know, just in case something did happen. (Not that he's hoping, or anything.)

 

By 1:20pm he's standing outside a tall apartment block, white paint yellowed with age around the windowsills and a funny looking mould growing around the buzzers. He's ten minutes early, despite leaving later than he had wanted to. Probably because he's ran (walked. At a brisk pace, thank you very much.) most of the way here, and it's with shaking hands Harry presses the button labelled LT, biting his lip as he waits until there's a crackle through the speakers, followed shortly by Louis' voice.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Er, hi.” Harry starts, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “It's me. Harry.”

 

And there's a brief pause, a second of silence in which Harry's pretty much ready to faint because he's so nervous, but then -

 

“Harry!” Louis sounds excited and Harry can just imagine the way he's smiling, all bright and beautiful. “You're early. Hang on, I’ll buzz you in. Fourth floor, yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Harry croaks, because it's not like he's already memorised the address or anything, then pushes open the door to the complex. It's a little cold inside, brick walls and concrete flaws, but there's windows at ever corner in the staircases so it's not so bad.

 

By the time he's reached the fourth flaw, he's breathing heavily and is thankful for the coolness of the corridors otherwise he'd be sweating like a cat in heat. Still, he'd rather be like this than stuck in a lift that probably stunk of piss and would break down by the time it passed the first flaw. He's not an idiot, he knows how his luck goes.

 

Apartment 26B has a dark blue door and with gold plated numbers hanging just a little above eye level. It's not supposed to be intimidating, but god how Harry's so damn nervous as he raises a fist, tapping lightly on the wood. This is Louis' home, the place he eats, sleeps, showers – he's got himself off in the very place Harry's about to step into. And fuck, now Harry's going to be sporting a semi the whole afternoon. Fantastic.

 

The door swings open just as Harry's considering whether or not he should shake his hair out again, push it more to the side, but when he sees Louis standing there in sinfully tight jeans and a plain, scoop neck white t-shirt (hello collar bones) that shows off the faint scatting of chest hair Harry hasn't noticed before, the only thing on his mind is how soon is too soon to push him against the nearest flat surface and kiss the living daylights out of him.

 

“Hi” Louis breathes, like seeing Harry has been the best part of his day, and little does Harry know it is.

 

“Hey” he smiles back, twisting his fingers anxiously. Louis sees the action, stares for a second longer than necessary, before reaching out and taking Harry's hand in his own, fingers linking together seamlessly. Harry had been worried that his sweaty palms would have been a complete turn off, that Louis would find some excuse to drop his hand and cancel the whole date, but he finds to his relief that Louis' in a pretty similar state, fingers shaking slightly as they curl around Harry's own. It makes him smile. “Nervous?”

 

Louis takes a step back into the apartment, successfully bringing Harry with him. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

 

Harry grins wider, closing the door behind him as his gaze locks with Louis' own. “I have no idea. I may be going a little crazy, you may have to kiss me better.”

 

“Oh, how will I ever survive?”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Make me.

 

“Gladly.”

 

*

 

They're watching Lady and the Tramp. It's a Disney classic and at first Harry had thought Louis was babying him, but then he sees that it's Louis who worries his lip when those damn cats come out of the basket, Louis who cuddles into Harry's side when Lady's being chased by mongrels and Louis who curls into his side, fighting a yawn and feeling utterly boneless in the embrace of the younger boy.

 

It's crazy the way that their roles are so reversed, the way that Louis tucks his head under Harry's and plays with his fingers when the credits roll, neither wanting to move. It's crazy, but it's them. It's natural, like how the leaves turn orange and fall in the winter, or the way that the sea always comes back to kiss the shore, or even the way Louis pushes Harry down on the sofa after the screen turns black, licking into his mouth with a wicked tongue and lips that aren't ruined and red enough for Harry's liking.

 

In hindsight, it's probably a miracle that they even managed to watch the whole film before getting distracted. Harry was right, he had been half hard since the moment he saw Louis, and all he can think about is stretches of tanned skin and soft curves - places he can let his hands roam over and just touch.

 

When Louis' teeth scrape over his collar bone, the fabric of his shirt pulled down just enough to expose the milky skin (and Harry doesn't even care that he's probably going to get a bollocking for stretching his clothes) he can't help but whimper, bucking his hips up to meet Louis'. They're both hard, Harry has been since the moment he walked into the damn place, as predicted, but he hadn't expected Louis to be as responsive. He is, though, and he whines low in his throat, breath tickling Harry's skin.

 

“I want you.” Harry finds himself saying, pulling Louis' head up for a kiss. It's filthy, all tongue and biting teeth, and he can feel Louis' fingers scrabbling for purchase over his chest.

 

“Harry, we can't.” Louis murmurs, voice cracking like it's the hardest thing for him to say in the world. He's wants to ask why, wants to demand that Louis take him right this minute because dammit he's horny, but before he can Louis' talking again, lips brushing Harry's with every movement. “You're fourteen, and I know you don't care about that, but I do. No - no don't look at me like that, it's not like that. I don't care that that's your age, but I care that at this age you're - you're so innocent, Harry. I don't want to fuck you up.”

 

Harry bites his lip, Louis' looking down at him now, concerned but pupils still blown. “Maybe I want you to fuck me up.” he drawls, fingertips caressing the back of Louis' neck, and Louis shivers.

Before he can protest any further, Harry draws him down for another kiss. Louis' still shaking his head when they part, so Harry trails his lips _downdowndown_ until he's sucking on his neck, kissing a bruise into the skin. This time, Louis sighs shakily.

 

“I'm not going to have sex with you, Harry.” he says, before kissing the younger boy's pout away. Harry's confused, because as he's talking his hands are moving towards his jeans, fiddling with the button until it pops open. “but I will do something else.”

 

_Oh._

 

Louis tugs Harry's jeans down and it takes his brain a moment to catch up before he remembers that it'd probably be easier to actually get them off if he raised his hips a little. He does, and the next minute they're lading on the floor with a soft thud, followed shortly by his boxers and holy fucking shit.

 

Louis' just staring, drinking him in, and Harry starts to feel self conscious - a blush creeping over his complexion. He's lying there, half naked on the couch with his cock thick and flushed red, lying heavily on his lower stomach, watching as Louis licks his lips almost subconsciously. “God, you're gorgeous, Harry.” he whispers, ducking to kiss him. It's gentle, soft and sweet and it makes Harry's toes curl as the fabric of Louis' tee brushes lightly over his sensitive skin.

 

The air in the apartment turns heavy and Harry finds it hard to breathe as nimble fingers wrap around him, squeezing just slight enough to make him gasp. Louis' hands aren't the warmest, but they're not too cold either and the new temperature makes him jolt, fucking into Louis' fist.

 

“So gorgeous.” Louis repeats, kissing along his neck as he thumbs at the head of Harry's dick, spreading the pre-come that's already gathered there. Harry's close, he's never had another persons hand on him before and he's so inexperienced that even the gentlest of touches sends him spewing profanations, begging for more.

 

Louis speeds up then, a look of concentration on his face as his fringe falls into his eyes, a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead as he begins pumping his hand faster, spurred on by Harry's moans and Harry's rambling. Harry's fingernails scratching along his bicep and Harry's eyes rolling back in into his head. Everything's Harry, as far as he's concerned. There's nothing else, just him and Harry and this second hand couch.

 

He looks quite beautiful, Louis thinks, with his face flushed red and his breathing laboured. It's so fucking endearing, and maybe that's a term that's not quite suitable for the occasion, but it's the first that springs to mind as he looks at Harry, spread out beneath him and pliant at his touch. Louis doesn't really think about it, but the hand that had been holding Harry's hip, pressing finger shaped bruises into the milky flesh, drops to his own lap, squeezing his own cock through the denim of his jeans. He spares half a thought into regretting wearing his tightest jeans in a half ditched effort to try and impress the fourteen year old splayed under him, the press of the material suffocating as he only gets harder, but Louis' mind is more focussed on the curses falling from Harry's pretty mouth.

 

Louis palms himself gently at first, teasingly, almost in tune with the hand that's working along Harry's length, but his trousers are too confining for that tone to last much longer. He almost whimpers when, one handedly, he manages to pop the button open, the pressure instantly reducing. The zip comes easily after that, and the instant Louis' fingers wrap around himself, familiar and so damn good, he has to bite his lip to stop from making a sound. He wants to be quiet, wants Harry's whines and breathless moans to fill the air, to be the only thing he hears as he tugs at himself, eyes focused on the colour spreading across Harry's skin.

 

The room smells like sex; like sweat and coconut, tangerines and that cheap mouthwash from Tesco. It smells like them, HarryandLouis and LouisandHarry. It's something that Louis can't remember ever happening before – being with somebody so much that something becomes them instead of you and I, and he likes it. He thinks, as he reattaches his lips to Harry's, that he could quite get used to liking it for the rest of his life.

 

“Let it go, love.” Louis murmurs into Harry's skin, nibbling his ear lobe gently. “Just let it go, it's alright.” Harry blushes at the pet name, features softening as he leans in closer to Louis' touch, and Louis' desperate to see him unfold, see him lose control completely. “Come on, you can do it. Come for me, darling.”

 

And Harry does. With one last thrust into Louis' grip, he tenses, mouth falling open slightly and eyes closing. “Fuck” he breathes, blinking rapidly as Louis works him through his orgasm with slow, delicate strokes.

 

Louis quickens the hand on his own cock, then, the expression on Harry's face making him even more desperate to come. Maybe he'd be embarrassed, later, when it doesn't take much more than a lazy smile from Harry and a few more tugs for him to be spilling over his closed fist, wiping his come on the leg of his jeans before returning Harry's smile, leaning to kiss him sweetly before he shimmies down the couch, but in that moment he really couldn't bring himself to think of later; not when now seems pretty damn nice.

 

When Louis' face is level with Harry's crotch, he looks up from under long eyelashes – fringe now flat and stuck to his forehead, and smirks. Harry watches, following with his eyes as Louis ducks his head, tongue stretching until - oh. Louis licks at Harry's thighs, his stomach, lapping at the white streaks of come until Harry's clean and all Louis can taste is Harry. (And, not that he really has a fine grasp of the English language at that point, Harry thinks he's really bloody amazing.)

 

“Come here,” Harry croaks, voice wrecked, as he entwines his fingers into the elder's hair. He pulls him _upupup_ until their lips crash together, tongues dancing and Harry can taste himself there. He wants to moan, demand another round because that's probably the hottest thing ever, but he'd also quite like to cuddle this man he thinks he's helplessly falling for, and that desire weighs out everything else. “Thank you.”

 

Louis shakes his head, blushing, then kisses Harry on the nose. “Do you want something to drink?”

 

Harry thinks for a moment before uttering a soft 'no', arms wrapping around Louis' waist as he pulls him closer. “I just want you.”

 

*

 

Things don't really change after that. They still smile and blush and exchange kisses in the back room of the shop before Harry has to go. Louis still counts down the minutes until 3:20, when St. Martin's school closes and Harry'll come by for an hour under the pretence that he's studying at a friend's house. They're still falling even more deeply in love with each other.

 

Neither Harry nor Louis remember their one month anniversary. They're both busy, Harry with school and tests and picking his GCSE options, and Louis with work (he's been practically running the place for weeks since the boss is off on a second honeymoon, or ill, or doing something which takes him away from the small building) and his open University course. They remember two days too late and Harry laughs into Louis' mouth as the latter's hand travels over his backside. They make sure to remember their second.

 

Four weeks later, Louis slips some fancy chocolate into Harry's bag and Harry leaves a card on the till, smiling coyly as he scuttles away. Louis opens it during his break and the message is so simple but so Harry it makes him smile and his stomach flutter.

 

Louis

Happy two months! Thank you for being the best part of my day.

\- H

 

There's something crossed out just before Harry signs it, and Louis' pretty sure he knows what words lie underneath, but he'll wait to hear them instead of squinting at the paper under the dim lighting of the staff room.

 

(He does squint, but only for a minute. Or five.)

 

*

 

“What do you want to do?”Louis asks. They're on the roof, lying on the flat concrete with nothing but one of Louis' thin blankets wrapped around them. There's probably only two dozen stars visible thanks to the city air but they're stargazing nonetheless, and Harry thinks this is definitely going down on the list of top five moments in his life.

 

Harry shakes his head. “You'll laugh.”

 

“I won't” Louis smiles, turning his head to look at the younger boy. If he were in some corny chick flick, he'd probably start waxing poetry about how Harry's eyes were far prettier than the stars, that they shone far more brightly. But as it so happened, this was real life and he was no Shakespeare. If he happened to think it, however, then nobody needed to know but him. “I promise.”

 

There's silence for a moment, Harry's tongue darting out to wet his lips and Louis follows it with his eyes, swallowing. Then -

 

“I want to be a lawyer” He says, voice breaking the quiet. It sounds so loud despite being at regular volume and Louis wants to shush him, wants to keep all the little words he says to himself because the honey-smooth tone is so damn beautiful and he's selfish, okay? “Family law, actually. I want to help people, kids, make them happier and make sure they're safe. I just - yeah. Want that.”

 

Harry's voice had gotten quieter as he spoke; by the end he's almost whispering and Louis doesn't realise that he's kissing him until he pulls away, smiling softly. “You'll do it, I know you will. You'll be brilliant, Harry.”

 

And if Harry blushes then, it's hidden by the dark. Louis' palm is resting nicely over his cheek and he can feel the skin burn, and that's enough. It's private, hidden from the eye but still there to feel, and it's sort of beautiful. Sort of like them.

 

“Thank you.” Harry whispers, voice catching in his throat and his lips catching Louis', short and chaste.

 

They don't say anything more after that. Instead they lie there, staring at the ebony sky and wondering how they were so fortunate to find each other so young. They forget that fortune is a fickle thing, that everything sweet has a bitter edge to it in the end no matter how hard you try to keep things sacred. It's moments like these that they'll look back on and remember when things seem near impossible, when they're hanging on by nothing but a breath upon a whisper and it's them against the world.

 

*

 

The next morning Harry wakes up with his back pressed against Louis' chest, a strong arm placed languidly over his waist. The room is cold but Harry's warm, the comforting heat radiating from Louis' body lulling him into a contented trance, and he's not entirely sure if he had dozed off again before feeling Louis stir behind him.

 

“Morning,” he smiles, hand dropping to rest over the one covering his stomach.

 

“Hi.” Louis replies, snuggling in closer to the boy in front of him, and Harry can almost hear his smile in his voice.

 

He tilts his head, craning it so he's looking up and over his shoulder. Louis' hair is wild, ruffled from sleep and his eyes are still droopy, but he's still the most gorgeous man Harry's ever seen. He's sure he doesn't look much better; he knows from experience that his curls are absolutely atrocious first thing in the morning, one side nearly flat due to sleeping on a tilt and the other crazy and unruly.

 

Louis doesn't seem to mind, though, ducking his head to brush his lips against Harry's. It's lazy, a good morning kiss to see in the new day, and as the sun peeks through a small gap in the curtains, Louis thinks he could quite get used to starting his days like this.

 

Later, Harry will check his phone to see three new messages. He'll see a 'Goodnight darling. Don't work 2 hard! X” from his mother, fooled into believing that he had stayed at Niall's, studying for a biology exam the following week and blissfully unaware that her son had spent the night in his boyfriend's bed. Niall will have text an hour before hand and an hour afterwards, stating that he hated lying and he hoped Harry was fun and safe. Not that he knew where Harry was, of course. He loved Niall, but Niall loved being good and that included not lying to everybody for the sake of a relationship that wasn't even his own. No, telling Niall was never an option. Not while Harry was still under age.

 

That, however, was later. For now Harry's perfectly content to lie on messy sheets with the duvet pooling around his midsection, soothed by the steady rise and fall of Louis' chest.

 

And when they finally do emerge from the bedroom, well rested and hanging off of one another as though not touching for even a minute would be the end of them, it's okay. They're going to be okay.

 

*

 

When Harry says those three words, it's not under a spectacular firework display on some public holiday that nobody really cares about. It's not on any important day at all, really. It's a Wednesday.

 

“I think I love you, you know.” Harry says, voice calm like he's just announced it's raining, or something as mundane as that. It's crazy. It's crazy because Harry's still fourteen, still young with baby fat and wide, innocent eyes and pink, sinful lips that fit just right over Louis' own. He's fourteen, and Harry's not sure if falling in love at this age is a blessing or a curse. After all, wasn't Juliet fourteen when she met Romeo? And everybody knows how that ended. But, despite that, Harry's not scared. Not scared because it's Louis, (he knows they're not going to be like Romeo and Juliet because he's not stupid enough to take poison and Louis' got more sense in him to actually check for a pulse before shoving a knife through his ribs,) and nothing has ever felt so right other than when he's with him. He shakes his head. “No, I don't think. I am. I'm in love with you.”

 

Louis' throat dries up and all he can hear is the pounding of blood in his ears and Harry's words in his mind. He's been hoping for this, wanting it, ever since the card on their anniversary. Now that he's hearing it, though, he doesn't know what to do. He's been in love only one other time in his life, a young sixteen – impressionable and naïve, still older than Harry, but far more immature, and Clark had been charming. Charmed the pants off of him in under three weeks with beautiful smiles and flattering comments, and Louis had been left with shame, an aching arse, and a broken heart. He doesn't want to be Harry's Clark. He refuses to be. Nevertheless -

 

“I love you, too, Harry.” He says softly.

 

\- you can't help how you feel.

 

(At least he means it.)

 

But, the thing is, people don't care about love. People don't care that somebody can be happy, can feel safe, with someone else. They see in black and white, hear in acapella, And Harry and Louis should have known that. They shouldn't have been surprised when, on a damp April afternoon, they get caught.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting this part has been a complete bitch. Apologies if something looks weird, I've tried to catch everything but if there's something I've missed, do let me know!

 

“ _Twenty year old Louis Tomlinson, from the area of central London, has been arrested on account of child abuse. It is said that the defendant, who had been undertaking an Education course at Birkbeck University, had been interfering with an unidentified fourteen year old boy from a nearby comprehensive secondary school for the duration of nearly three months. Staff have yet to make a statement, however the mother of the victim has stated that she feels as though there was more that could have been done in order to assure the safety of her child. Statistics of child abuse have been steadily on the rise since - ”_

Anne picks up the remote, turning off the television just as the photograph of Louis had begun to fade. It was his mugshot, the harsh black and white lines behind his body reminding Harry of just how well and truly screwed they are. Of how foolish they were.

“It's probably for the best that you don't go into school today, darling.” she starts, hands shaking around the breadth of her coffee mug. “Most people know by now.”

Harry nods his head, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “They shouldn't. They shouldn't know, we were _careful._ ”

He doesn't miss the way that Anne tenses up, doesn't miss the way anger flashes through her eyes, but she's sure to cover it up before speaking. “Harry, I know you think that he cared about you, but - I’m sorry love, but he didn't. He - ”

“No.” Harry snaps, shaking his head. “Don't you dare apologise _._ Louis didn't hurt me, he would rather cut off his own arm than do that, and we both know it. You _know_ Louis, mum. He's worked at that shop for years, you've seen him around all the time. Mrs. Smith is just a nosy old bat and she's ruined his fucking life, if she just kept out of it - ”

“She walked into the shop to find you pressed up against a wall with that - that _man's_ hands all over you!”

“In the back room!” Harry cries, throwing his hands in the air. “She shouldn't have even been in there anyway, it's staff only.”

“Then why were _you_ there _?”_ Anne shoots back, eyes burning. “He was breaking a lot of rules with you, Harry. If that doesn't tell you that it was wrong, then I don't know what will.”

Harry can feel his blood boiling. It's as though he's looking through red-tinted glasses, the whole world is sharp and hard, and he doesn't like it. She doesn't understand, the whole god-damned world doesn't understand. He wasn't a victim and he certainly wasn't _abused._ He was loved. He was cared for, and he almost pitties the people who can't recognise that as a good thing.

“Mum, please just drop the damn charges!”

Anne shakes her head, jaw set firmly. “No.”

Harry bits his lip, growing desperate. He's still angry, there's no doubt about it, but right now he's more concerned for Louis than he is mad at the rest of the world. “If you don't – if this goes to court, I swear I will declare under oath that he never touched me.”

There's silence in the kitchen, broken only by the ticking of the clock above the toaster, and Harry drops his gaze from where he had been staring icily at his mother. His mother, who's almost crying now. There's tears brimming in her eyes, yet she blinks rapidly in an attempt to make them disappear. She raises a hand, Harry half thinks she's going to slap him – knock some sense into him, and all that, but she doesn't. Instead she wipes under her eye, not even caring about smudging make-up because she isn't wearing any today anyway, and asks simply: “Why?”

His reply is instant, automatic, honest.

“He makes me happy.”

Anne's gaze doesn't soften.

 

*

 The thing about news is that it spreads quickly. On the Tuesday, Harry tries to sneak down town and see Louis. If news reports are anything to go by - and they're really not, not when it comes to what really happened. But Harry'll admit, begrudgingly that is, that they're great at keeping up to speed on when and where Louis will be. All it takes is a small “ _Tomlinson is being questioned by police throughout the duration of the week”_ for Harry to know that he's not been moved out of town, not yet, and that means he's at the station - it means Harry can see him.

Of course, 'tries' is the operative word in that scenario. He gets as far as the station before he realises he has no idea where, in the three story building with security guards and cameras and actual other people, Louis is. Still, he's not giving up.

Pushing open the doors, Harry feels as though he's under scrutiny by everybody within a hundred mile radius. There's three people in the waiting area, sat in hard chairs that line the wall. An elderly woman, Harry guesses she has a cat stuck up a tree or something, gives him a disapproving glance, _tsk_ -ing through her false teeth as she eyes his school uniform, clearly under the impression that he's skipping. Which, you know, is true. So Harry's not too bothered about her, but what does make his skin crawl – what makes him hitch his bag more securely over his shoulder and duck his head – is the twenty something lad with tattoos and piercings, leather jacket clinging to impressive muscles who's looking at Harry and his uniform in a way completely different to what Grandma had done. And it's strange. It's strange because the guy is Louis' age, looking at him in a way that shows he _wants_ him, and Harry's sure that Louis' done the same thing, sometime during the past three months, but. But Harry had never felt this way around Louis – had never felt uncomfortable, objectified.

And it's then that he wishes people could read minds. Because he _knows_ now, he knows without any slither of doubt that Louis loves him. Really, truly loves him, and it hurts just as much as it makes him smile, because Louis _can't_ love him. Not if he wants to be normal, to have a normal life.

But it's all a bit too late for that, isn't it?

“Excuse me?”

The man behind the desk looks up, eyeing Harry over the brim of his thick glasses like he's a lost kitten. “And how can I help you, young man?”

He's patronising and Harry wants to bite him.

“I'm, um. I'm Harry - “

“Styles?” a voice chirps from behind him, and Harry turns to see a man in his mid thirties, an easy going smile on his face and an ink stain on the cuff of his white shirt. “Your mother didn't tell us you were coming in today, but good. It's good you're not waiting it out – the sooner we get your statement done, the easier it'll be for you.” 

Harry's stunned for a moment. Anne never told him that the police wanted him questioned, but then again, that was normal wasn't it? Procedure and all that. And for a moment, Harry almost smiles. Because maybe there is such a thing as luck; maybe it's his turn to protect Louis, now.

 So he follows the guy – officer Cardle, he soon learns – down far too many corridors and past too many desks for him to be able to find his way out alone. He wonders how Louis felt, being directed in the same way with cuffs on his wrists and a guilty label whacked on his head before anybody even bothered to listen to their story. The mere thought makes Harry's stomach twist uneasily, makes him play with the thread of a bracelet that's made from entwined shoelaces he and Louis plaited together on a hot Saturday, the heat of the sun beating down on them as they lay on the roof of Louis' apartment, people and afternoon traffic passing below them, completely unaware. The memory makes the twisting worse and Harry's hands drop to his sides, empty and cold.

 He's lead into an interview room; Officer Cardle gestures for Harry to take a seat, and he does so, dropping his bag beside the chair as he sits nervously, picking at his nails.

 Cardle starts a tape player, clears his throat before speaking. “This is Detective Inspector Matt Cardle, badge number 88E1918MCZ, questioning Harry Styles in regards to the Tomlinson case, Tuesday twentieth of April at 9:08am. Harry, you appear to have wavered your right to have an adult present, are you sure you wish to proceed?” Harry nods. “Could you say it aloud? For the benefit of the tape.”

 Harry clears his throat. “I waver my right to have an adult present” he says, voice horse. His palms begin to sweat and he wipes them on his school trousers, eyes darting around the room.

 “Mr. Styles, when was the first time you interacted with Mr. Tomlinson on a one-to-one basis?”

 “Louis' worked at that shop since he was sixteen; my mum and I went there all the time to do small bits of shopping, so I don't know. Probably ten.” Harry replies, one eyebrow arching subtly as he tries to channel a bit of cheekiness into his response. Louis does it better than him, makes sassy look easy, but it's really not. Not when Harry's alone, cassette tape recording everything he says, and each word could possibly be the key that locks Louis up.

 Officer Cardle smiles slightly, and Harry hates him. “I meant before Mr. Tomlinson was arrested. Before he started touching you. Can you describe what happened the day things changed between you?”

 “Mr. Tomlinson never touched me.” Harry stutters, looking as innocent and as honest as he can. “I went into the shop and brought some sandwiches for lunch. He took the money, gave me my stuff, and then I went. That's it. Whoever said anything different is a liar.”

 “Are you protecting him, Harry? Are you scared? What Louis Tomlinson did to you is a criminal offence. It's alright, we're the good guys, you can tell us the truth.”

 Harry would roll his eyes, but his mother taught him to respect his elders.

 “Don’t patronize me, Officer Cardle. I’m not a child.”

 Then again, Anne can take her respect and shove it up her lilly-white arse.

 Cardle sighs, rubbing his forehead with his eyes closed, before a knock on the door interrupts whatever he was about to say. A redhead half enters, hanging onto the door handle as her gaze drifts between the two in front of her.

“Matt, I need to speak to you and the Sarg for a moment. It's important.”

 Matt nods, checking his watch. “Interview suspended, 9:16am.” he pauses the tape then eyes Harry warily. “Would you be able to wait here, we can finish this when I return.”

 Harry smiles. “Of course.”

*

   
  
Exactly two minutes after Officer Cardle and the redhead leave, Harry stands up and edges towards the door, listening to see if there's anybody outside before opening it and moving out into the corridor.

There are four doors lining the opposite wall, all closed and painted a deep red with _'interview room'_ printed in bold, black letters. Harry swallows. He doesn't have much time, ten minutes maximum, he's guessing, before Officer Cardle comes back. He needs to find Louis.

Harry tries the handle to the door directly across from him but it's locked and he swears, breathing out nervously. It was a stupid option, he tells himself. They wouldn't put them so close to each other. On an act of impulse, he heads towards the second furthest door and presses his ear against it, hand circling the knob. He doesn't hear anything, no voice questioning – harsh, as though they know the story already – and so he breathes in quietly, holding it as he twists the handle. It clicks open.

Harry's never experienced heartbreak before, but he thinks he feels it now. The room isn't dissimilar to the one he'd been in; thee white walls, one with a large mirror fixed in place, a wooden table with four seats placed around it, and there – Harry recognises those baby blues. Louis' hair is greasy, fringe falling flat over his forehead while his eyes look tired, resigned, circled with purple bags. Harry thinks he looks beautiful – thinks the handcuffs that chain him to the table leg are ugly, obnoxious.

“Oh, _Lou,_ ”

Louis bites his lip, eyes shining. “Harry, you shouldn't be here.” he says, but the effect is lost as his voice catches, a tear falling, and Harry is by his side in an instant, the door shutting behind him.

“Lou, Louis it's alright. It's going to be okay, I told them nothing happened, I told them you didn't even _touch_ me – ”

Louis sniffs, breathing out a wet laugh. “It's not that simple, love.”

“We can _make it_ that simple.” Harry says, and he looks so young – _is_ so young – that Louis finds it hard to break the truth to him. He's fourteen, fucking fourteen and Louis wonders when it was he lost all of his inhibitions, when, along the twisted road that is his life, he stopped caring about that.

The thing is, Harry's always worn his heart on his sleeve. Louis remembers the first time he'd ever seen Harry cry, sitting on a park bench at eleven years old after finding out his father was never coming home. When Louis fell in love, he'd promised himself he'd never make Harry feel like that – like his entire world was crashing down and there was nobody there to hold him through it.

He's always hated breaking promises.

“No, Harry, baby listen.” Louis starts, shifting to face Harry as far as he can with his wrists cuffed tightly. “I told you I loved you, and I meant it. What we have doesn't _look_ right, but it has always _felt_ right, and I won't let them turn this into something that feels _wrong._ ” He licks his lips, fingertips reaching out to brush the back of Harry's hand. “I just won't. And so I didn't lie – God, how could I? I love you, Harry. I'm _in love_ with you, and if I go to prison for that then so help me, I'll serve my sentence with a smile on my face, because I know I did the right thing. I did _right._ ”

Harry lets out a choked sob, sniffing. “You idiot.” he mumbles, eyes glistening. “You stupid, wonderful, _righteous_ idiot.”

He kisses him, then, lurching forwards so their lips brush clumsily and noses bump. Harry's lips are dry and Louis' are chapped, it's not the best kiss they've had but Harry's scared it's going to be the last for a while and so he holds on, twisting his fingers into Louis' hair and tugging slightly, the small voice in his head telling him it's alright if it hurts because he wants to hurt Louis as much as Louis' hurting him.

“I'm sorry,” Louis whispers, when their lungs scream for breath. “I'm so sorry.”

Harry shakes his head, chest rising and falling heavily. “Don't.” he licks his lips, gaze flicking between Louis' eyes and mouth. “Don't.” he repeats, before leaning forwards again.

The kiss is softer now, tender. Louis grips the chain of his cuffs tightly, forehead creasing as he returns the gentle pressure. He wants to keep Harry here, wants to be able to touch him properly, fold him up and keep him in his pocket so the press can't get to him, the police or the damn ideologies society posses about relationships, but he knows he can't. Because Harry needs to go; if he was found here then things would only be worse, and neither could really afford that at that moment. “You need to go.” he breathes.

“I'm not changing my statement.”

Louis smiles. It won't do any good, he knows that. The cops will think it's because of fear, because he's a gullible child who believes it wasn't wrong, and Louis knows that Harry's smart. He's on the gifted and talented register for English and he knows his way around a kitchen far better than Louis, despite having years more experience. He knows Harry knows the truth.

“Okay.”

Still, if a bit of false hope helped then false hope he would have.

*

The trial takes place a month later. On May thirty-first Harry finds himself in front of his bedroom mirror, white shirt and black trousers ironed straight. He feels like he's suffocating, the shirt buttoned up too high and too tight, but he finds himself not wanting to pop a button. Today isn't about him.

“You ready, baby?” Anne asks, leaning against the door frame. She's dressed smartly, a polka-dot shirt under her blazer. Harry nods, knowing that they both want this to end differently.

“Let's go.”

  
*

The courthouse is full when they finally get inside; reporters and journalists having blocked Harry and Anne's way with cameras and microphones the moment they got out of the taxi. Harry had kept his promised, had fixed each and every one of them with a cold stare and stated that Louis didn't even hold his hand. He's always been a shit liar, always had his every emotion playing on his face. It was on of the things Louis had told him he loved about him: his honesty. Just then, however, he had hoped his story didn't falter.

The pews are wooden, hard, and Harry's never felt so uncomfortable before. Across from them, sat at the front right, is woman sitting straight – bright blue eyes shining with tears she refuses to shed, clutching a pack of tissues with a grip so hard her fingers have turned white at the tips. Harry's seen those eyes before, had looked into them so many times that he doesn't have any doubt as to who she is. He wishes he could go over, hold Mrs. Tomlinson's hand and tell her “ _it's okay, he's going to be okay”,_ but he can't. The trial's starting.

He sees Louis being brought through a door at the back, being lead into his box, and Harry remembers one night when the third month of their relationship had just begun, a night he had stayed over, telling his mother he was kipping at Niall's. They'd ordered take-out from the Indian around the corner, sitting at either end of the couch with their legs entwined in the middle, watching re-runs of family guy until the power cut out. Even then, it was nice. Louis had dug out a few candles from the cupboard and they'd moved dinner to the table, playing footsie and feeding each other bits of chicken. It was ridiculous, really. Cheesy, ridiculous and perfect. They'd stayed up all night, dancing around the kitchen in the candle light and brought in the sunset together, Harry's head nestled in the crook of Louis' neck. Louis had looked exhausted, but happy.

Harry wishes he could see that expression again. Now, Louis looks as though he'd spent the night in a cell, sleepless as he counted down the minutes until he'd have to stand in a room full of people and be found guilty for falling in love. Harry clenches his first into the fabric of his trousers.

“All rise.”

He stands numbly, not registering the judge nor the introductions the lawyers are making. All he can seem to focus on is Louis' tired gaze, his slumped shoulders. He's not meeting Harry's eyes.

“I'd like to call Cosette Smith to the stand, please.”

Harry rolls his eyes as the prosecution (blue-tie, as Harry identifies him) stands, shifting papers in a file. He hadn't bothered to learn his name – he wasn't their friend, no matter how Anne tried to persuade Harry to believe otherwise. He wasn't ''the good guy''.

Mrs. Smith is lead in, up into the witness box, and blue-tie walks over with far too much confidence for Harry's liking. “Mrs. Smith, do you swear by almighty God that your evidence to the court and the jury on this trial shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“I do.”

Harry sighs.

“Good. Then we'll begin. Mrs. Smith, you were the one to place initial accusation against Mr. Tomlinson, were you not?”

Cosette nods, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I was.”

“And this was due to your witnessing of inappropriate physical contact solely on the part of Mr. Tomlinson towards the victim, Mr. Harry Styles, correct?" blue-tie waits for Cosette to agree before continuing, opening the file. “Mrs. Smith, please tell the court what you saw that day.”

“I was doing my regular afternoon shop...” she begins, gaze drifting to the far wall as she remembers. Harry tunes out, he already knows where this story leads. It's been repeated in his dreams often enough, and it always ends the same: with Louis being put in the back of a police car, wrists in cuffed behind his back as he's read his rights.

“They were in the stock room, his hands all over him like he's done it before – probably had, he used to have quite the reputation.”

“Move to strike that from the record, Your Honour.” Miss Cole rises, hands on the desk. Harry smiles and thinks she's possibly the best defence lawyer the state could have provided. “It's speculation.”

Judge Monroe nods. “So stricken.”

Blue-tie's jaw ticks in frustration, but other than that he's still, grounded. The perfect picture of professionalism. “But, Mrs Smith, you did indeed witness Mr Louis Tomlinson engaging inappropriately in the eyes of the law?”

Cosette nods, “I did”, and blue-tie all but beams.

“I have no more questions, Your Honour.”

Louis finally meets Harry's eye, and things seem to become a blur after that. Mrs Cole stands up to cross examine, but neither really hear what's being said. Harry smiles a little, a small curve of his lips at the left side, and Louis returns it sadly, gaze flickering between him and the prosecution. Blue-tie isn't looking at them, but there's a member of the jury who is – curious brown eyes following their movements as if they'll help to solve a puzzle.

Mrs. Smith is replaced by an old friend of Louis', testifying about his personality. Harry smiles when Blake tells a story of when they were at college, young and naïve, and completely care free. He can imagine what Louis would have been like in class – a little like Niall, maybe. Dedicated, but still wanting a laugh, and he reminds himself to ask Louis about it when they get out of this. ' _If_ ', he forces himself to remember, swallowing a lump.

It feels like an eternity passes before it's Louis' turn to speak, and in that time Harry almost begins to feel a little less like he's about to throw up. Almost.

“Mr. Tomlinson, you've been charged with an account of abuse upon a minor, how do you plead?”

“When you phrase it like that -” Louis starts, and Harry knows his fingers are tapping against his thigh, a nervous habit he's never really grown out of.

“How do you plead?” Blue-tie interrupts, voice firm.

“Not guilty.”

“Mr. Tomlinson, may I remind you that you have sworn under oath to say the truth when under question. In your statement, you said that you and Mr. Harry Styles had been in a relationship since late February. Is or is that not true?”

Louis licks his lips, head tilting to the side. “No, it is, but –”

“And so you plead guilty?”

“ _No,_ it's not like that!” Louis insists, tone verging on desperate, and Harry has to close his eyes. He can't watch this.

“With reference to the law, Mr. Tomlinson, your testimony presents you as pleading guilty. Do you have anything further to say on the matter?”

It's quiet, nothing but the typing of the court stenographer filling the room and it's as though the sound echoes off the walls, drumming through Harry's ears. He wants to open his eyes, wants to look into Louis' eyes and show him that it doesn't matter, that he loved him and nobody could take that away from them. He wants to talk, too. To open his mouth and shout at everyone until they understood, until they could really _see._ Instead he stays still, breathing _in, out, in, out._

“No.” Louis voice' is resigned, quiet, final.

Harry's breath catches in his throat, eyes stinging as Miss Cole stands up, chair scraping softly against the worn wood of the floor. It's their final chance, _Louis'_ final chance, now, and Harry tries not to acknowledge the feeling that tells him they've already lost.

( _in, out, in, out.)_

He doesn't listen when Miss Cole speaks, not really. He doesn't want to hear how she's grasping at straws and he knows that at this point, she's not trying to prove him innocent; she's trying to get as short a sentence as possible.

 _'It's like they want him to apologise',_ Harry realises maybe a little too late. ' _They want him to apologise, but he refuses to be sorry for loving me.'_ And of course, that's what Louis had been telling him all along, wasn't it? Maybe in not so many words, but that's what he had meant when he'd kissed Harry like he was painting the moment onto his mouth, wanting to keep it forever. It's what he meant when he smiled at him, sad but not unhappy, and told him it was going to be okay.

The sound of the gavel hitting the block stirs Harry back into the room and he sits up straighter, a frown growing on his forehead as people begin to stand, a low murmur passing through the crowd.

He turns to Anne, throat dry. “Mum? What's -”

Anne smiles soothingly, a hand patting Harry's knee. “Court adjourned, sweetheart. They're deciding.” she stands up, smoothing out her skirt before turning to face him. “Come on, I think we could both do with a cup of tea.”

Harry's heart is beating in his throat, but he follows her out, fire growing in his stomach.

  
*

There's a small coffee shop right across the road and Harry excuses himself to use the toilet, feeling sick. He can't stand this, being away from Louis and knowing that at that moment, their fate was being sealed by people who didn't _know._ The queue is long, it's one of those stupid single unisex cubicles that are always either too big or too small, and the wait is doing nothing to ease Harry's nerves.

In front of him there's a girl with pink hair pulled back into a high braid and spider bites in the lift corner of her lip, body dressed in a smart looking suit that probably cost more than Harry's mum's car. She's talking animatedly with a petite blonde in similar clothes, brown satchel slung over one shoulder and a notebook clutched in her hand. He's always been told that eavesdroppers never hear anything good, but, well. Harry learns that they're law students, observing the trial for their upcoming bar exam, and blondie thinks it's more than weird that Louis' not tried denying his charges even once.

“What do you think he's going to get?” The first girl asks, tongue darting out to play with her piercings.

“Typically it'd be a minimum of two years,” Blondie shakes her head “fucking disgusting, really. A kids life has been ruined and all they get is twenty four months?” Harry's hands clench into fists, brushing against the fabric of his trousers. “But I don't know. There's been such a cry in the media about it, the state would probably cause a riot if it's anything less than five. Judge is a family woman, too, so I don't think she's going to be lenient. My bet's on six.”

Harry tunes out when Pinkie asks if she wants to put money on it, eyes stinging. _Six years_. Even if Louis got let out after five due to good behaviour, he'd be nineteen. He'd be different, he'd look different, no longer having that spot of puppy fat that Louis loved to kiss nor the voice that still had yet to break. He doesn't want to think about what that could mean.

He turns, suddenly not wanting to stand and wait any longer. His mother's waiting by the door, two 'to go' cups in her hand, and Harry blindly makes his way towards her, gaze fixed. He's so set on making it out of the shop that he doesn't notice the woman in front of him before it's too late, knocking into her with accidental carelessness.

“Sorry, I - ” Harry takes a step back, eyes darting to someone only an inch taller than him and he feels like he's been kicked in the gut, meeting Mrs. Tomlinson like this. He wets his lips, mouth so incredibly dry, and tries to think of something to say, a good impression to leave in case Louis wants to take him home one day. Instead his throat closes up, tongue feeling heavy. “I'm so sorry.” he croaks, and they both know he's not talking about bumping into her.

Mrs. Tomlinson smiles, small but not forced. “It's not your fault.”

*

  
It takes just over half an hour for the jury to come to a decision. In that time Harry learns that, in a Crown Court, debating Louis' innocence isn't even an option. He's being charged with an indictable offence and the only result they'll be getting is a sentence. Despite never being religious, he finds himself praying that somebody, anybody, will sympathise and be lenient.

By the time the jury is seated again, Harry honestly feels like he's about to throw up. His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, knee bouncing anxiously as he bites at his bottom lip until it's red and bruised. He wants to ask how they even got here when, a few months ago, everything had been _perfect._ Now it's wrong, all wrong and he doesn't like feeling so helpless, like a leaf in Autumn.

“Have you come to a decision?” Judge Monroe asks the representative, a brunette in his late twenties, Harry guesses.

“We have, Your Honour.”

“And?”

The representative pauses for a moment, almost as if he's nervous. Harry holds his breath. “On account of child abuse inflicted within a prolonged period of time, the jury would like to sentence the defendant to nine years imprisonment, effective immediately, with no bail.”

And then, slowly but all at once, Harry goes cold. It's like being submerged in ice, his breath leaves him in an instant, shoulders slumping as everything distorts itself – every sound blurs into the same hollow tone, tears blurring his vision.

Judge Monroe administers the sentence with blank expression, the sound of wood falling on wood piercing Harry's ears.

  
*

It takes two and a half weeks for the visiting order to arrive at Harry's house. Two and a half weeks of stares and whispers from students and teachers alike, though the latter at least try to be subtle. Harry tries to appreciate that, tries not to let it get to him when Mrs. Morrell, the school councillor, pulls him aside in the corridor to remind him that her door is always open (“ _In case you ever want to talk about... well. In case you just want to talk”)._

Niall knows, the whole school knows thanks to the footage of he and Anne entering the courthouse, and Harry couldn't be more thankful that summer break was in less than two weeks.

He gets told that he's definitely got places in next year's music, drama, law and sociology classes – that he should read up on common legislation and Emile Durkheim if he wants to get ahead. Mr Peters gives the class a book list for the holidays and Harry wants to bury his head in the sand, wondering why English Lit is mandatory, when he sees two Shakespeare plays, two Anne Bronte's and a D.H. Lawrence mixed in with the rest. It's snob literature, is what it is. The themes are universal and Harry knows there are modern books out there that cover similar narratives and are equally worth studying, yet they're considered inferior simply because there aren't any 'doth's and 'thee's in them. He'd mentioned it once, complained to Mr Peters about how the class might actually be able to understand the language if they ditched things that stopped being popular 100 years ago, but received an unimpressed glare and a break time detention as a result. All Harry knows is if he has to sit through five minutes of Benny attempting to pronounce 'machination' one more time, he might actually contemplate suicide.

Still, the hustle and bustle of the end of term approaching isn't enough to distract from the gossip.

(The day the footage had aired, Harry had been in school for not even ten minutes before Niall had found him, dragged him into the toilets that nobody used and demanded answers. It had felt good, being able to tell his and Louis' story, the _right_ story, to someone that actually listened. Niall had hummed and nodded at the appropriate times, but otherwise remained quiet until Harry was finished.

“Fuck, Harry.” He'd sighed after, dragging out an exhale. “I mean, you read about this shit, but _damn._ ”

Harry had nodded and Niall moved forwards, wrapping his arms around Harry's shoulders and hugging him close. “I'm not going to pretend to understand it,” he had said “but I'm your best mate, and I'll support you no matter what.”

Harry had really felt like crying in that moment, but he took to burring his face in the crook of Niall's neck instead, breathing deeply, and that had been that.

But see, the thing is, not only does the whole school now know that Harry's got a boyfriend closer to ten years older than him than he is five, but they also know he's more than a little gay. And that? That's fucking terrifying.)

It's just before lunch and Scott, a year 11 on the football team (which actually didn't make him better than anyone else, no matter what he likes to think), pushes into Harry as he passes by Scott's locker, nearly knocking Harry's backpack off his shoulder.

“Watch it,” Harry grumbles, securing the strap of his bag. Scott smirks.

“Why, going to get your peado boyfriend to beat me up?”

The tips of Harry's ears flush red and he fists his bag strap, biting the inside of his cheek. “Fuck off, Scott.”

“Oh, kitten's got claws! Tell me,” he says, stepping closer to Harry until they're a hairs breadth apart. “What does mummy think about her kid being a slice of queer jailbate?”

Harry knows that violence is against the school's code of conduct – he's had to read and sign that specific page in his journal for the past three years, but. It should be pretty common knowledge by now that he's not good with following rules.

   
*

   
Headmistress Decarli puts Harry in isolation for the rest of the day and keeps him behind for an extra twenty minutes until he's finished writing “aggression gets you nowhere” 100 times. It's boring and his wrist hurts but at least it's not two weeks suspension and a mark on his permanent record. Scott had been pissed about that, to say the least, but apparently provocation was taken very seriously at St. Martins. Who knew.

 Harry gets home just before four o'clock to an empty house, a note from Anne saying she'd gone shopping for groceries and a plain brown envelope laying on the kitchen counter. He tears it open as quickly as possible, eyes scanning the details and instructions twice before grabbing the phone, shaking fingers dialling the prison as he repeats his reference number in his head.

 The woman on the end of the line is nice, tells him to bring I.D when he visits and wishes him a good day. The visits booked for Saturday morning and Harry can't help the smile that spreads across his face as he puts the phone back on the hook. He's seeing Louis in four days.

  
  
*

  
Four days turns out to be ninety-six hours. That's five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes, and suddenly four days seems a hell of a lot longer to Harry than it had a week ago. By minute five thousand, seven hundred and twenty five, he's already impatient and also aware he should probably start counting in days instead, because five thousand, seven hundred and twenty five is just too many numbers to keep track of, even if he did get a B+ in the last maths test.

 Anne comes home at quarter past five with six Tesco bags, three in each hand, and Harry rushes to help her, glad for the distraction.

 “Thanks, sweetheart.” she sniffs, nose itching. Her coat is damp and it's only then that Harry hears the soft pitter patter of rain outside, falling against the pavement.

 “I'll stick the kettle on” Harry says, grabbing the butter and ham from the bag in front of him to put in the fridge.

 “Saw Maura at the shop, she sends her regards by the way, says we should go over for dinner one night to catch up. If you're ready for that.”

 Harry pauses with his head in the fridge, shoulders tensing. “I'm not a victim, mum.” he says, dumping the packets on a random shelf, straightening up. “I don't need to prepare myself for anything, least of all dinner with the Horans.”

 “Right.” Anne nods, worrying her bottom lip. They're breaching tense waters and Harry doesn't want to go there, he really doesn't want to go there, especially after the incident with Scott. “Pasta for dinner, alright?”

 Harry breathes out with relief. “Yeah, pasta sounds good.”

 

*

 

The rain carries on all through the night, bleeding into the next day. By 7:00am the drainpipes are overflowing and Harry hopes that this means sports is cancelled because there's no way they can play footie if the school pitch is flooded.

 He dresses quickly, pulls on his uniform and sighs when he notices an ink stain on the cuff of his shirt. That'll be a bugger to get out. The weather eases up as Harry walks, no longer falling in fat droplets but rather a light dusting – the kind that feels like a cobweb when it brushes your skin yet still chills you to the bone. He's wet, nevertheless, by the time he reaches campus.

 It's also just his luck that _no,_ sports isn't cancelled, just moved into the gym where they team up with the girls for a game of dodgeball. Harry likes dogeball, likes the thrill and adrenalin rush that comes with always being on edge, desperate not to be caught out. That day, though, it's almost like he's got a neon sign on his chest saying ''target'' – not even five minutes in, he's had to twist and bend in ways he knows are going to hurt later so that he isn't hit. He knows Miss Williams is watching him, just like all the teachers do these days. Maybe it's because they think he's going to suddenly be taken off by a stranger in the middle of class, tarnishing their good reputation even more, but it pisses Harry off. She should be watching how Josh got Emily at the knee but she still hasn't gone off court, or how Sarah's leaning against the stack of mats, not even bothering to participate. Harry's distracted only for a moment with these thoughts, but it's a moment too much and he feels a sharp sting against his right arm where the ball's hit him.

 “Styles, off!” Williams calls out, blowing her whistle. Fucking brilliant, of course she'd pay attention to _that._

 The game plays on with Harry on the benches; Emily walks off and joins him ten minutes later, shortly followed by Dana and Cora. He's not spoken to Dana since that awkward first kiss, but she sends him a smile, small and comforting, and somehow he knows she doesn't judge him, doesn't pity him either, and that's – that's nice. Refreshing.

 At the end of the hour Harry's team wins and Niall claps him on the back, reciting the game as if Harry hadn't been idly watching for the most of it.

 

*

  
That evening Harry sits across from Anne as they eat dinner, pushing peas around his plate with his fork, mind somewhere else.

Anne watches, desperate to reach out and hug him close like she used to when he was a kid, back when everything was simple, black and white and no shades of grey – not in a child's eyes. But Harry's not a child any more and she can't stand this strain between them, the constant twisted pressure in her gut. It's like stepping on eggshells every time she opens her mouth.

“What's up, sweetheart?”

 Harry's fork pauses, peas rolling to the side. “Nothing.”

 Anne blinks in quick succession because dammit, she's not going to cry over this. “Harry...”

 Quiet for a moment, Harry sets his fork down, the soft clatter of metal on china suddenly too loud in the near-silent room. His shoulders are set, tense, and Anne nearly gives up. Nearly, until:

 “Do you –” he starts, but cuts himself off, dropping his gaze to his plate. Harry regrets putting down the fork, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Mum, are you embarrassed by me? Because I’m sorry that –”

 “Oh, _sweetheart_ ”

 “ – I kept Louis a secret and I'm sorry that I like boys instead of girls, and I tried, I did because I know that's not, not what a lot of people want from their kids, and I tried so hard but I couldn't forget about him. I made the move first, mum, and I think you should know that because he – he didn't want us to be anything because I was too young, but I insisted and I started it, I kissed him first and he was good to me, for weeks he felt so bad and guilty when he didn't need to because I loved him, I still love him but I’m –“ he takes a deep breath, shaking. He's got a grip on the edge of the table, holding on so tight the tips of his fingers are turning white, but he needs to do this. Needs to get this out. “I'm jailbait, right? I'm a, a _faggot_ and I – if I could help it, I would, but I _can't_.”

 “Harry!” Anne's moved, now, kneeling beside her son as she gently pries his fingers from the edge of the table.

 “And it's not a disease or anything, mum, I'm just _gay,_ like I've got curly hair, and I'm just really _sorry,_ okay? I'm sorry for all of it but I’m not sorry for loving him, because I can't do that, I can't.”

Anne rises a little, arms wrapping around Harry's frame until he's pulled against her front. He's crying, breathing hiccuped as he sniffs, trying to focus on that feeling of home and safety. 

“Shh, baby, I know.” she soothes, one hand coming up to stroke the curls back from his forehead. “Harry, I love you. You're my son, I will _always_ love you no matter what gender you prefer. I've never cared about that, not in a negative way.” she ducks, kissing his temple before resting her cheek atop of his head. “And whoever taught you 'jailbait' and 'faggot' is going to see the back of my hand, mark my words. Nobody talks to you like that and you most certainly do not refer to yourself like that, do you hear me?”

Harry nods, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “I love you.”

Anne breathes out softly, squeezing him tight. “You too, cherub. You too.”

She's never seen Harry so fragile.

*

 

Things are good, after that. It's not quite the same, not yet. Neither mention Louis and Anne starts reminding him of his chores; God help him, but Harry's actually missed having a stern look sent his way when Anne sees his bedroom floor littered with clothes and empty plates. It means he's no longer being treated like porcelain.

 

End of term comes sooner rather than later, every student in year nine being crowded into the hall for an assembly in which Ms Decarli gives a lecture on staying safe and passes out certificates to those who have an attendance of 100%. It's familiar and Harry thinks, with a small glimmer of hope, that things might be getting better.

 

 *

  
It's either way too late on a Friday or very early on a Saturday, Harry's not sure. He's not slept and he's not sure he can, too sick with nerves and anxious excitement. Tomorrow is Saturday (or rather, today is Saturday) and he's seeing Louis in seven hours and forty two minutes. At the foot his bed, he's laid out a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a jumper that's actually Louis', kept from the time Harry had spilled pot noodle on his own a little under an hour before he was due home, too short a time for it to be washed and dry in time. He'd never gotten around to giving it back, and he's thankful for that now. It doesn't smell like Louis, hasn't for a long time but simply knowing it's his makes it a little easier, reminds him what they're fighting for.

At six a.m Harry gives up on trying to get a decent amount of sleep – he thinks that goal was busted when he heard the clock chime midnight, but whatever. He's more alert than he should be after only being able to grab half an hour of that shallow half awake, half asleep kind of unconsciousness, so he doesn't chance it – puts the shower on cold to shock his system. He doesn't want to be falling asleep on the bus, doesn't want to miss his stop and be late.

By the time he's dried and dressed, it's seven thirty and Harry has half an hour to kill before he has to leave. Visiting starts at 9:30 and although he knows he's not got the stomach for breakfast, not right now, he grabs an apple anyway, glad that his mum's a heavy sleeper. It's not that he's keeping the visit from her, they've managed to be a lot more open with each other since That Dinner including her actually listening to his side of the story, but he knows she doesn't approve. So they don't talk about it, it works out best for everyone involved, and if he's asked he'll say but for now he's happy to keep things as they are. He has his mum back, he's going to see his boyfriend and, as luck would have it, the apple actually stays down.

 *

Harry gets to the prison gates at 9:43 because the driver was a dick and so is the world. He's agitated, nervous, foot bouncing as he checks in because what if Louis thought he wasn't coming? He doesn't pay attention as he's searched, padded down and bag checked as the back of his hand is stamped. Rather, his gaze is fixed on the white double doors not ten feet away, knowing that he's going to walk through them any second now.

“Clear.” the guard checking him calls out, stepping aside to let Harry pass. He recognises him from somewhere, the voice warm and comforting despite the brisk tone. It's one of those that you can't imagine will ever be intimidating, and Harry finds himself wondering why he chose law enforcement as a career. It's not something he wonders about for long, though, because a hand is on his back and he's being guided towards the door, towards _Louis,_ and suddenly his heart is beating in his mouth and, quite honestly, there's a thirty percent chance he might piss himself.

Harry gets to the doors, raises a shaking hand to pull one open and, stepping inside, his breath catches. The hall is huge, filled with tables and chatter and two more guards flanking the doors. They're good on security here, then, which is reassuring when it comes to the murders and the real bad guys, but Harry realises now that the five hours he dedicated to watching Prison Break in hopes of finding inspiration to get Louis out have been waisted.

He passes a couple as he makes his way between tables, a crying woman and a man covered in tattoos. There's what Harry recognises as the La Eme logo, something that makes Harry divert his gaze to the ground the second he registers it. He's done research, knows they're one of the largest and most ruthless prison gangs in America, but never thought it was even a possibility they'd be here in England. He glances again, sees a tear-drop done in black ink on the side of the guy's face, five dots on his neck and a cobweb on his elbow, both of them, Harry thinks, but he doesn't dare risk a closer inspection. It's terrifying, knowing that Louis spending time in a place where there are gangs and people able to take a life as though it means nothing, so he quickens his pace, the need to see him and know he's okay growing with each table he passes that doesn't have Louis seated at it.

 “Hello, stranger.”

Harry spins, blood racing because he _knows_ that voice. Louis' sat at the table in front and to the left, orange jacket matching every other prisoners' and wrists bound, though Harry notices with a little relief that the chain is longer on these cuffs, albeit by only a few inches.

 “Louis.” Harry says, soft and treasured like it's the most important word he's ever known. He crosses to the table, Louis rising only just in time for Harry slide his arms around his waist, holding tightly. He smells smells of cheap detergent and soap but in that moment Harry thinks it's the best thing he's ever experienced; it's Louis, he's holding Louis and he doesn't care if they're being watched, if people don't like it, nor if Louis' leaves bruises in the shape of fingerprints on his hips because this is right, no matter what a damn textbook says. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Louis smiles, drawing away with glossed eyes and a heavy heart. They only have an hour and, as much as he'd like to, he can't spend all of that time in Harry's embrace. “I wish you could.”

They sit, facing each other with Harry's feet overlapping Louis' under the table. It's subtle, safe.

 “I didn't know if you'd come.” Louis says, hands resting on the edge of the table, and Harry longs to take one of them in his own.

 “Of course I would. I always will.”

 Louis bites his lip. “I want you to know, Harry, that I – I don't expect you to wait for me. If you don't want to do this –”

 “You're such a fucking idiot sometimes, you know?” Harry interrupts, but it's fond, his lips curved slightly. “I'm waiting. I'll wait the nine years and I'd wait longer if I had to. My feelings haven't changed and I doubt they ever will because I _love_ you.”

 Sniffing, Louis scrubs at his eyes with cheeks flush red. “Thank you.” he says, voice cracking, and Harry's heart is town between being so bloody full and breaking on the spot.

 “I need you to do something for me.”

 Harry nods. “Anything.”

 “There's a key underneath my doormat, a spare one, I – I'm going to be in here for a while, Harry. They're going to take my flat, if they haven't already, and I need my stuff put in storage. Mum can't do it, she has to look after my sisters and there's a lot of stuff to sort though. Throw away anything you think I won't need, box up everything else... my mum's number is in the yellow pages; if you call her she can give you my bank details, charge the unit to that, there should be enough in there to cover it.” Louis' voice softens, eyes taking Harry in. “If there's anything you want to keep, you can. Like, you know, a jumper or two.”

 Harry blushes, ducking his head. “It's warm, okay?”

 “Sure.” Louis chuckles, crossing his legs so that his foot rests against Harry's shin. “Whatever you say.”

Harry smiles and this is it, this is them. They're not perfect, Harry had once thought Louis was; how could he not be when he had brilliant blue eyes and a warm smile, gentle heart and an even softer touch? But then he saw his flaws, he saw the mistakes and the bad cooking, messy organisation and the chapped lips that spilled lies so easily, no matter the size. He saw them and he knew that _no,_ nobody was perfect, and for that he loved Louis even more because Louis is fire, burning hot and bright, whereas Harry's the air that can either nurture a spark or kill it before has the chance to become something great. _They're_ great.

Louis asks him about school and Harry tells him that they finished yesterday and don't go back until September the first, that he got the classes he wants and common legislation isn't as difficult as he thought it would be. He considers saying that after googling D.H. Lawrence he's pretty sure the dude was a pervert, but after a quick glance at the tables surrounding them he figures it's best to leave that bit out. In turn, Louis tells him he has a cell mate called Aiden who's in for arson but really isn't that bad, that the food is nicer than the media makes it out to be and he's allowed four visits a month, at least until he's proved himself to be a well adapted individual who isn't looking to plot his way out through the sewers. That, apparently, had been a thing.

 Harry laughs and Louis tries to memories the way his cheeks dimple and lines appear by his eyes, faint but still there.

 “I brought you something.” Harry says, suddenly nervous though he doesn't know why. “They said it was alright, you know, people send them in with letters all the time. I thought you could put it on your wall or something.”

 He reaches for his bag, bringing out an envelope and sliding it across to Louis with sweaty hands and Louis picks it up carefully, lifting the flap. Inside there's a photograph, one Louis remembers well and his breath catches in his throat as he reaches out, fingertips tracing picture-Harry's smile.

 “I cooked us pasta.” Harry says softly, watching Louis' expression change from nostalgia to sentimental affection. “Made you do the washing up afterwards and then we watched Titanic. You took our picture when Jack finished the portrait.”

 “I remember.” Louis smiles, glancing back up. “You were blushing and it was cute.”

 “Was not.” Harry grins, Louis' stopped from commenting as a shrill whistle goes off and people begin to stand, the harsh scrape of chair legs on wood making Harry wince. “Times up?” he whispers, and Louis nods, lips dragging into a pout as his eyebrows furrow. Harry knows it's not a conscious move, knows it means he's trying to be strong even when he wants nothing more but to curl into a blanket with tea and chocolate digestives. “I'll be here early next time, I promise.”

 Louis breathes in, loud and uneven as he folds his arms across his chest, standing. “Good. And – will you write to me? My mum's coming down next week, I won't see you until the thirteenth –”

 “I will.” Harry swears, eyes flickering over Louis' frame, trying to save him to memory. “Just as long as you write me back.”

 Louis nods. “Of course I will.”

The hug this time is desperate, Harry clinging to Louis as though he can merge the two of them and take him home, back where it's safe and private, but he can't. They hug until a guard comes over to separate them, leading Louis away and Harry watches, eyes locked until Louis' swiped through a door and out of his sight.

(The moment Louis' back in his cell he asks for a bit of tape and sticks the photo on the wall, telling himself that two weeks is not the end of the world and he can wait that long because he's not a co-dependent little shit. Aiden gives him a look but doesn't comment and Louis decides he quite likes Matt, even if he does snore.)

 

*

 

Monday morning dawns too soon and too early; Harry blinks against the bright rays of sunshine that have manage to creep through the gap in his curtains and remembers that today is the first week of the summer holidays. He should feel relief, always has done, because this means no classes and no more gossip – by the time September rolls around everyone will have had their own heartbreaks and stories to tell, forgetting all about Harry's – but instead he feels lonely, sad for reason he isn't even sure about.

They have dinner at the Horans' that evening, a full Sunday Roast and Harry smiles because it seems that Maura's already lost track of the days. For a while he feels thirteen again, like he doesn't have a care in the world because Niall's telling him about a cousin who's seventeen and pregnant, and for once the attention isn't on him. It's nice, familiar, but then Harry's reminded that come tomorrow Niall's gone for two weeks, off to Ireland to visit some relatives, and he suddenly feels so very alone. 

*

 

_Dear Louis,_

_I miss you in the way the tide_

_misses the shore and_

_the swallow misses the beating_

_of a lovers wings_  

_(Mr Peters told us to practice poetry. It's stupid, I know.)_

_Love, Harry xx_

_*_

Harry writes little notes to Louis every day and puts them all in a blue envelope, thinking that Louis stares at four white walls for god knows long and might want a splash of colour. On Thursday he sits up in bed with a notepad and pen, trying to devise a letter.

Conversation normally comes naturally with Louis, always has and Harry had hoped it always would – right from the beginning they could go from discussing whether a chocolate covered flapjack could be considered healthy or not, to criticising the pro-life debate _(“because honestly, what the fuck is with government? It's the woman's body, not theirs.” / “Language, Harry”)_ – but now he can't think of a word to say. Words seem insignificant, all of a sudden, like they don't hold enough weight, and it's ridiculous because there's literally over a million words in the English language and Harry can't even string five of them together to tell Louis how he feels.

There's a knock on the door and Harry looks up, seeing Anne in the doorway with a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. Harry tilts his head, eyebrows raised. “You've been up here a while,” she explains, stepping into the room. “Thought you might want a snack.”

“Oh,” Harry says, setting the pad down beside him. “Thanks.”

He reaches out, sitting a little straighter against the headboard as he takes the mug, Anne setting the plate on the bedside table before reaching out, tucking a lock of Harry's hair behind his ear. She's got that look about her, the one of the concerned parent who doesn't know whether they're overstepping a boundary but are going say what they want to, anyway. So Harry blows around the rim of his mug, steam clearing as he takes a small sip, waiting.

Anne opens her mouth, pauses, then closes it again before letting out a soft breath and a: “Are you alright, darling?”

Harry sets the mug down. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“You're going through a lot, Harry, it's fine to not be okay one hundred percent of the time. Niall's on holiday and I know you miss him, you miss someone to talk to who's not going to categorise what you say into boxes of right and wrong, and I – I want you to know that I'm here, alright? I may not be much help a lot of the time, but I can listen.” she finishes, squeezing Harry's knee before standing and heading back out. “I'll start on dinner in an hour or so.”

Harry bites his lip, eyes flickering between the bare notepad and Anne's retreating form. “Mum?”

She pauses, turning in the doorway with one hand on the frame. “Yeah?”

“I –” whatever he's going to say seems to get caught in Harry's throat and he curses himself because today, apparently, is not a good day for his relationship with coherency. “How do you, um, write? A letter. To someone.” _obviously._ His brain adds, and Harry drops his gaze to the bedsheets, embarrassed.

Anne smiles, warm and almost reminiscent. “Write from the heart.”

And so, Harry does.

*

 

The letter gets added to the envelope of notes and is posted Friday morning as Harry makes his way to Louis' flat.

They key is under the mat, just as Louis had said it would be, and Harry feels guilty using it. Intrusive, almost. The air is cold but not quite damp, no smell to it any more, and Harry remembers that it used to smell like Louis – a little like clementines and mint.

Harry makes a cup of tea, a lot whiter than he normally has it and far sweeter, too, because he wants to use up as much of what Louis has in stock – doesn't want anything to go to waste. It burns his tongue and throat as he drinks, not waiting for it to cool off because he doesn't have time for that; the transport van is coming in three hours, ready to take Louis' things into storage. Everything feels real, all of a sudden. He doesn't like it.

It's easy to sort through the bigger things. The furniture can be put away, everything apart from that damn coffee table with the wonky leg and chipped surface. Louis had said it gave the room character; Harry had said it was a nuisance.

After that comes the books, the CDs and DVDs that Harry's sure have never left their cases, and all the other little bits and bobs that lay around the place. It's odd, packing Louis' life away. Harry spares a thought for the people that have to do this after losing somebody in a way a little more permanent. He doesn't think he could do that, couldn't move a single thing if he lost Louis forever. And, no. He doesn't even want to think about that.

Harry grabs an empty cardboard box from the pile in the hallway and makes his way into Louis' bedroom. It's a mess; the quilt is creased and half draping on the floor, pillows askew as clothes are scattered across the carpet. He nearly trips on a shoe, biting his lip to keep himself in check because of _course_ it'd be just the way Louis left it That Morning.

He takes the suitcase from the top of Louis' wardrobe and begins filling it up with clothes, folded up nice and small so there's enough room to fit the shoes in, too. He's doing okay, he's just peachy until he pulls out a jumper – _the_ jumper. It's white and cable knit, the one Louis had worn when Harry first kissed him, and _fuck_ that feels so long ago.

Clutching it tightly, Harry rubs his thumbs over the thick material, tracing the knitted patten until it begins to blur, his eyes watering over. A choked sob escapes him and he raises a hand, one side of the jumper falling until the sleeve brushes the carpet, to cover his mouth, breathing laboured and erratic. His lungs feel too small and his heart too big, about to beat out of his chest, and his fingers curl into the jumper tightly in a vain hope that it'll ground him but it doesn't.

Harry can't see, can't breathe, can't think – at least not about anything other than the overwhelming fear. Fear for Louis, for himself, for _them,_ for what's going to happen in the nine years apart and for what the future could bring to either of them. He's scared about Louis' safety, prison attacks make it into the news almost daily; he's seen the type of people they keep in Belmarsh, and he's scared that he's going to be known as 'that kid in the news' for the rest of his god-damned life.

Somehow, and he's not entirely sure how he manages to cross the room, Harry feels the edge of Louis' bed in front of his knees and he collapses onto it, jumper clutched tightly to his chest. The pillows still smell of his man and Harry lets it wash over him, cloud his mind until his sobs weaken, turning to hiccups and sniffles.

He falls asleep like that, cuddling the jumper close with cheeks flushed red and stained with tear trails, a nightmare creeping up on him that features Louis in chains, locked behind a metal fence.

  
*

Harry awakes forty minutes later with a start, the feeling that he's late for something he's long forgotten churning unpleasantly inside of him until he takes in the alarm clock he has yet to pack away. He has just over one hour to get everything done, and so he falls back against the mattress, breathing out in relief. He still feels jittery, on edge and nervous about something he's not quite sure of, but he knows he has a task to do. Worrying whether or not panic attacks will become a frequent thing can wait.

By the time the transport van gets there the flat feels cold and empty. Harry watches as everything's loaded into the back – boxes upon boxes, furniture on top of furniture, and he tries to detach himself from it, but this is Louis' whole life, nearly everything he owns, being taken away.

But, when everything's sorted and Harry watches the van pull away from the curb, keys dropped off to the landlord and an ache settling in his heart, he grips one single box close to his chest. Inside is Louis' laptop, four t-shirts and that bloody jumper because they may have taken Louis from, but Harry’ll be damned if they take these small comforts, too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to what I've been saying, this is not the penultimate chapter! I've gone and split things up again. Part three is now two parts, so you have two more bits to come after this.
> 
> -

Time passes at a normal pace and Harry's quite surprised, had expected it to drag by with each second feeling like a minute and every minute feeling like an hour, but it doesn't. Niall gets back from Ireland the day before Harry's due to visit Louis again, and it's as good as 'good' can get, given the circumstances. 

Anne manages to pull some strings and gets him a summer job at Rosso, a lovely restaurant only a half hour bus ride away, washing dishes and sweeping up in the kitchen. It's not much but the pay is good, just over minimum wage, and it's nice. Harry likes the hustle and bustle of a fast paced environment, likes not being able to think too much.

The second time he sees Louis, he's five minutes early and well rested, anxiously waiting to be let through the double doors. He's the second person there, the first being a heavily pregnant blonde who sends him a nervous smile as they queue, hand resting protectively on her stomach.

“Visiting family?” she asks, voice kind and warm.

Harry shakes his head, answers without thinking and gets as far as 'boy _'_ before catching himself, eyes widening and heart beating a little too fast. “ _Friend.”_ he corrects, trying not to look down. “Just a friend.”

For a moment he worries that the flicker in her eyes means recognition, but then the same guard from last time comes over to open the doors and Harry really doesn't have time to worry about that when Louis' waiting for him, two days worth of stubble on his face and tired eyes shining with a smile.

Harry hugs him tight, leaning on his tiptoes just a little so he can rest his chin comfortably on Louis' shoulder, and Louis holds him close, breathing in summer air and coconut shampoo.

“Hi,” Louis breathes softly, eyes closed and wingers curling into the strands of hair falling over Harry's neck.

“Hey yourself,” Harry responds, hand sliding down Louis back until it rests on his hip, gentle but firm. “Feels like I haven't seen you in forever.”

“Fourteen days, love.” Louis chuckles, but it's fond and fuelled only with affection.

Harry blushes. “Still.”

They sit and Louis tucks his foot behind Harry's ankle while Harry tells him about work and his boss and how he's thinking of getting the new call of duty game with his pay-check. Louis smiles and nods, humming when appropriate, and tries to name every shade of green and brown in Harry's eyes. Afterwards, Louis tells him that Jay thinks Harry's lovely, that he can call her any time and should definitely bring Anne over for dinner one day. Harry says he'll think about it because, as much as he'd love to know Louis' family better, he knows his own isn't quite ready to take that step just yet.

It's incredibly hot for summer in England; 28 Celsius according to the thermometer on the wall, and Harry has to push his hair back from his face, leaving it in some form of floppy quiff that will undoubtedly fall out of place in under five minutes. Louis' hands twitch with the urge to wrap curls around his fingers.

“I replied to your letter” Louis says, elbows resting on the table as he leans his chin on his hands. “forgot to say that you're quite the poet, though. A real Robert Burns.”

“Shut up” Harry flushes, ducking his head. “It's for school.”

“School's over, poppet. I mean it, you're good.”

Shrugging, Harry runs his foot up the underside of Louis' calf before letting it settle back on the ground once more, cheeks pink. “Thanks.”

Louis grins and from there the conversation turns to politics, surprisingly. Harry beams as he informs Louis that parliament has approved the bill to legalise same-sex marriage and Louis makes a mental note to start spending at least a bit of his free time in the lounge room so he watch the news and be kept up to date on these things.

By the time the clock above the doors at the far end of the hall tells them that they have only ten minutes left, they've simultaneously talked about everything and nothing, wanting to talk more but not knowing what to say.

Harry pauses between debating the better washing up liquid (it's totally _fairy_ no matter what anyone else says) and he shuffles, reaching his hand into his pocket, remembering.

  
"I brought you something else. It's not much, um. I'm working on getting the pictures from your camera printed, but I've not got the right paper at the minute, so.”

 It's a cut-out from a magazine, is the first thing Louis realises. The second is that it's a polaroid size image of sunset over the San Francisco Golden Gate bridge, and for a minute he wonders _why,_ but then Harry's talking and it makes sense, all of a sudden.

 "You were going to go on holiday when you graduated; road trip through America and see the sights, but now because of me you can't. So now I’m bringing the sights to you,” he nods towards the cut out in Louis' hands. “starting with San Francisco.”

 Louis bites his lip, eyes stinging. “Thank you.”

 The corners of Harry's lips tilt upwards into a small smile. “You're welcome.”

Saying goodbye doesn't get easier, not when Louis knows it's a fortnight before he can see Harry again since his request for more visits is still being processed, but he holds Harry tight and whispers sweet nothings in his ear as the buzzer fades out, not letting him go until he feels a hand on his shoulder, ready to guide him back to his room.

“Two weeks, yeah?” Harry sniffs, rubbing his nose.

“Yeah,” Louis says softly, taking a step back. “Yeah, two weeks.”

  
*

  
On Monday Niall drags Harry out to town because he's not working and Niall needs new trainers. He dreads it as soon as they step into JJB because Niall's the fussiest person he knows when it comes to footwear, and that's really saying something because he knows _Louis,_ for Christ's sake. Surprisingly, Niall tries and buys within half an hour, and Harry's too relieved to dispute going to McDonalds for a bite to eat afterwards, so that's how they end up sat at one of the corner tables, a happy meal each (because it's cheaper and there's no age restriction so why the hell not?) and a box of chicken nuggets to share (they're growing boys, after all.)

  
It's familiar, Harry knows they've sat here and ordered the same thing probably a hundred times before, but it's different now. The table is still the same plastic white, the chairs are still hard and uncomfortable and there's still way too many screaming children for both their liking, but Harry doesn't feel like that carefree fourteen year old he was before, and Niall knows this but is a great enough friend not to comment or ask. It's one of the things Harry loves about him.

  
The rest of the day passes and before Harry knows it, he's setting his alarm clock for work the next morning and falling into bed, asleep minutes after his head hits the pillow. In those few minutes he manages to wonder whether Louis' thinking about him, whether he's asleep or whether he's laying awake, staring at the ceiling or stars or whatever view he has from his cell.

  
What he doesn't know is that, twelve and a half miles away, Louis' laying on the bottom bunk of the bed in a small room, fingertips tracing over the photograph and magazine cut out that are taped carefully to the wall, while the mattress above him squeaks as Aiden rolls over.

  
The cell's far from spacious, there's a toilet and handbasin in the far left corner and, on the same wall but a little further down, a metal cabinet with six shelves; three each for clothing and whatever else. Aiden has a book on his because he has privileges after showing good behaviour for the two years he's been here already, and Louis would never admit it, but he misses his course textbooks and the tattered copy of Matilda he got at a car boot sale when he was eight.

  
Louis has no idea what time it is; there's no clocks in the cells, only in the main hall's and offices, but his guess is that's it's gone eleven and he really should sleep, especially since the bells wake them up at seven and he doesn't want to be under-slept, doesn't want to risk being off guard in this place because he dreads mornings – has an uneasy feeling in his gut that settled when Gerard slammed into him on their way out of the visiting hall that weekend and hasn't budged since. The glares and whispers don't help.

  
Sighing, Louis shifts to lie on his front, eyes tracing the curve of Harry's jaw in the photograph, the flush in his cheeks and the crinkles by his eyes. It's stupid, it really is, but his lips are mouthing the words before his brain can even register the motion and as soon as _“I love you so much... goodnight, sweetheart.”_ gets out, he feels better, finally able to close his eyes.

  
(He dreams of family and Harry; of his little sisters' smiles, his mothers warm hugs and Harry's dimples.)

 

*

When the bells go off at in the morning, Louis' head feels foggy and his body too heavy, but it's almost routine now so he gets up and grabs his towel and day clothes, waiting by the door until Officer Payne comes by to lead him and Aiden down to the showers. 

Payne's a nice lad, all things considered. Louis had recognised him within the first five minutes of being designated to Liam's area as the guy from the trial, the representative with the curious eyes, and when Louis had asked: _“why are you being nice to me? If you know why I'm here, I mean. Most people would want me dead”,_ he had simply shrugged and fetched a ring of keys out of his pocket to open cell B-26.

“Most people didn't see what I did,” he had said, holding the door open for Louis and, well. That had been that.

Now, they don't talk about it. They're not friends, couldn't be with Louis' sentence and Liam's job, but Liam keeps an eye out for him and steps in if things look like they're about to get rough. Louis thinks that maybe one day, nearly a decade later, he could take him out for a drink to say thanks.

The shower room is already half full by the time the last half of section B arrive, Louis and Aiden towards the back of the line, followed shortly by the folks from cells 27 to 30. The steam's thick but not thick enough, and Louis' spent enough time here to know to keep his eyes trained on the tiled floor until he reaches an empty section, stripping quickly and leaving his clothes on the wooden bench that ran through the middle of the room.

Over a month of this and he's still not used to it – it's degrading, is what it is. He's paranoid as fuck as he reaches for the soap on the small shelf attached to the wall, hands shaking each and every time as he washes himself down, and it's not right. He shouldn't be here, he shouldn't be showering in a room with 29 other men and a random guard standing watch (it's Derek Crowe this week and Louis hates the bastard), while he tries to get clean as soon as possible. He shouldn't be scared for his both his physical and mental health, nor that people are staring, but he is.

“Ten minutes!” Crowe shouts over the stream of water, voice followed by the unmistakable sound of a baton hitting his palm. Reason number one why Louis can't stand the bloke: he just loves to flaunt his authority.

Louis reaches for the shampoo, squeezing a decent amount onto his palm before scrubbing it into his hair until it forms a soft lather. He misses baths. He misses the soft bubbles and the nice smells, and he misses the god-damned privacy.

Once the shampoos rinsed away and he's spent a minute or two rolling his shoulders under the hot water, trying to get the ache out of them, he begrudgingly leaves the stream with five minutes to spare and grabs his towel from the bench, tying it securely around his waist. He wants to shave before they're lead back to their rooms even if the razors are blunt and ridiculously cheap, because he's passing the stubble stage now and as great as his jaw-line is, Louis knows he could never pull off a full beard. 

There's another lad around Louis' age at the mirrors, wet hair pushed back into a floppy quiff and Louis tries not to stare, but his body is littered with tattoos and it really doesn't help that he's really fucking attractive. In the 'I could be a vogue model' kind of way, if that's what you're into. Louis personally prefers curly hair and rosy lips, but whatever. There's a difference between finding someone attractive and being attracted to them.

“You need to stop looking like you're about to shit yourself every time you're within three feet of someone else” the stranger murmurs, low enough so only Louis can hear.

“I'm – sorry?” Louis breathes back, rubbing shaving cream over his jaw.

The other boy sighs, rinsing his razor under the tap before setting it aside and splashing his face, clean-shaven. “Zayn.” he says, examining his work in the mirror. “My names Zayn, and you're a walking target when you act like an abandoned kitten. You're in here for a reason, start acting like it otherwise you're going to get hurt.”

Louis bites his lip, dragging the razor over his stubble as he watches Zayn through the mirror. “Thanks, I think.”

The corners of Zayn's lips quirk into a smile and he's not so intimidating any more. Louis thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's got himself an ally in this place.

 

*

Summer gets better for Harry. The heat drops to a more reasonable temperature and the rushes at work get less frequent, leaving him with more time off to hang out and catch up with Niall who, as it so happens, starts dating a girl called Elle from Harry's street. They're ridiculously cute – Elle has strawberry blonde hair and wide hazel eyes, Niall preaches sonnets about her every time they're alone together and Harry smiles and nods, understanding that his is Niall's first love and he wants to shout it from the rooftops.

He had thought he'd be jealous, that watching Niall cuddle up to Elle and hold her close would make him miss Louis and long for him even more, but it doesn't. He's happy for them and of course he wishes he could be the same way with his own boyfriend, but he's surprisingly okay with things. He's dealing.

(Anne says he's coming to terms with things and that's she's proud of the way Harry's handling everything; Niall says that at least the visits keep his wank bank full. Harry slaps the back of his head for that one.)

On a Tuesday he sees Mrs. Smith at the shop while getting a loaf of bread for Anne and a packet of skittles for himself. He's angry, unsurprisingly so, has a million and one things he'd like to say to her but manages a small smile and a _'good morning'_ instead. Harry thinks that he has this adapting thing down to a T by now. 

He replies to Louis' letter, keeping it safe in his desk draw, and – as cliché as it sounds – life goes on. He finishes _Titus Andronicus_ , the flimsy copy he picked up from a charity shop, dog eared and filled with pink and yellow post-its that Harry's scrawled notes on, and is half way through Bronte's _The Tenant of Wildfell Hall_ by the time Friday evening rolls around.

Anne knows about the visits, now, and though she doesn't condone it, Harry appreciates that she doesn’t try to stop him either. If she ever asked about it, maybe over dinner one night while Harry cuts his potatoes and she sips her tea, Harry would quote Gilbert and say that Louis' heart is a sensitive plant, opening for a moment in the sunshine but quick to curl up and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of a finger, of the lightest breath of the wind. Harry is that sunshine and the world too hard with it's touch and too cold with its flurry – nothing as beautiful as Louis should have to live with only cool air and forceful sweeps. She doesn't ask, though, and so Harry doesn't answer. He keeps the book under his pillow and the hard hitting imagery in his mind where nobody can reach but him.

Saturday dawns with a storm heavier than England has seen in a while, but with building heat over the past few weeks it comes as a surprise to very few. The rain is heavy and pounds against the windows and pavement with a sound similar to that of a fired gun, and Harry doesn't think to take an umbrella, just grabs his bag and pulls the hood up on his jumper, shielding his face as he leaves the house.

In retrospect, it was a stupid move on his part. By the time Harry gets off the bus opposite the prison, he's drenched from head to foot, shivering slightly through his wet clothes. The search is quick, Harry doesn't pay attention to it any more, doesn't let himself feel uncomfortable because he knows they're only doing their job. (And, see? Adjustment.)

Two minutes after visiting time begins, Harry's lead through the doors with a grin on his face and a skip in his step. When he sees Louis with bruise on his jaw, bust lip and shallow cuts over his hands and face, his stomach drops.

“ _Louis...”_

Louis smiles a little, though it turns out more a grimace as he stands, wincing. “Hi, love.”

Harry lets his hands hover, close enough to Louis forearms that he can feel heat coming from his man, but still far enough away that he's not touching; not yet. “What – I mean, are you –”

Louis shakes his head, hugging Harry close. He breathes in lavender and vanilla, home and warmth and rain and air, before nodding to the table. “Not now. You first. How are you?”

Harry bits his lip, wants to know how his man ended up like this and wants to demand to be left alone with whoever did it for _five fucking minutes,_ but he know it won't do any good. Louis' stubborn for all he is kind and he won't tell until he's ready to. Harry sighs.

“It's alright,” he starts, taking a seat and crossing his legs, foot resting against Louis' calf. “Making my way through the reading list slowly but surely. I take it back, actually; Bronte's quite good. Really like Wildfell Hall.”

Louis nods as though willing him to continue and Harry rubs at his closed eyes, trying to think. All that comes to mind, though, is that the person he loves is hurt and he doesn't know why. “Um. Works going good, there's a new girl in so I've got half the responsibility now. Means I’m only getting paid half as much, too, but it makes sense. The cookie crumble is back on at Starbucks and I miss you like crazy so, please, just – tell me." Harry says softly, hand reaching across the table so that his fingertips brush Louis knuckles. 

Louis eyes soften, gaze dropping as he nods. “I guess I -” he heaves out a shaking breath, eyes closing as he shakes his head. "I dropped the soap."

Harry freezes, heart rate spiking as Louis carries on. "They knew; Greg had a Mrs who filled him in on everything - guess they thought it'd be justice."

He's about to throw up, Harry's sure of it, as he remembers his conversation with the pregnant lady two weeks ago; remembers his slip and and the way she seemed to put two and two together, and _shit_ , this is all his fault.

"They jumped me while Payne wasn't looking - honestly I'm lucky it was him that day, don't think Crowe would have broken it up so soon, he doesn't like me very much." Louis continues, hands beginning to tremble. "I mean, like, its okay. Liam - Payne, he is, - he lets me out at six now, instead, so I can shower and stuff before the others. Its better, I guess. More private and all that. And Zayn sticks with me during our free time and no-one will start anything while he's there, so, y'know, its not too bad." But Louis' lip trembles despite his words of reassurance, and Harry's sure his heart breaks a little for the man in front of him.  
  
"I'm so sorry" he whispers. "Its my fault, all my fucking fault, Louis"

Louis shakes his head, hand gripping Harry's tightly. "Don't. They would have found out sooner or later, was all over the news after all, don't you dare blame yourself."

“But –”

“No Buts.” Louis smiles, and Harry hates that he feels like he has to be strong in front of him, like he can't be the one receiving comfort for a change. “Promise me.” 

Harry drops his gaze, focussing on the hard plastic of the table. Louis' hand is warm and firm in his own, skin not as soft as he remembers it being but still so very Louis, still present and here, right in front of him. He nods. “Alright. Okay, I promise.”

Louis breathes out, somewhat in relief. “Good. I know what you're like, Haz. You'd beat yourself up for so long. I don't want that for you.”

“What do you want for me?”

“A future.”

*

 

In the time they have left, Louis answers all of Harry's questions about Liam and Zayn, reassures him that he's in safe hands now and he's _fine, babe, really._ He tells him about their psychologist, Cora, who everyone has weekly visits with in hopes it'll reform them; Louis likes Cora, she has fire, but he doesn't like the way she's diagnosed him with delusional psychosis and he certainly doesn't like the way Harry frowns when he tells him that.

(“You're not delusional,” Harry had said, eyebrows furrowed. “You just love me.” )

The one good thing that's come out of the attack is that the board passed Louis' request for more visits, a type of apology that he's not too proud to reject, and Louis loves the way the news makes Harry smile, knowing their countdown won't ever be as long as it has been.

The session, as usual, ends far too quickly. They part with a tight hug and Louis with a print out of the Washington Monument – something he tapes along side the Golden Gate Bridge and the photo of him and Harry as soon as he's back in his room, smoothing out the edges. Harry braves the slowly building storm and gets home to a change of clothes waiting on the radiator and a warm mug of tea, courtesy of Anne.

July bleeds into August and Harry gets dragged along to buy school supplies before the rush starts, but as much as he complains he secretly loves it – loves being able to spend time with his mum like they used to. He visits Louis at least once a week, his man looking better and healthier as time goes on, and things settle into place. It's not ideal but it could be far worse and they both know that.

A few weeks into the month, Harry experiences his first breakout, waking up to spots and blemishes the morning he's due to visit Louis. It's pretty pathetic, he knows that, but he cries in shower as he scrubs at his skin because he's changing already, and it's not even been a year. He hates it, hates the pimples and the body hair that grows thicker and coarser, hates breaking into a sweat at the simplest of tasks and hates how his curls get greasy after a matter of hours. Most of all, though, he hates the little voice in his head that tells him Louis won't love him if he's no longer that fourteen year old with smooth, milky skin and baby fat.

Louis starts to build up a little collage on the wall above his bed, pictures of skylines and monuments, photos of him and Harry, of his mum and baby sisters. Sometimes simply looking at the glossy prints makes missing them unbearable, makes his stomach clench in the most uncomfortable of ways and makes the corners of his eyes sting. There are other days, though, where the pictures make everything a little easier – makes it worth getting up in the morning, because he knows that at the end of the day, they'll be waiting for him. And, really, that's what keeps Louis going.

Liam notices some time towards the end of the month and says he'll put in a request for Louis to get a cork board. He smiles for someone other than his mum or Harry for what feels like the first time in a very long time, and maybe it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to start calling Liam his friend after all.

 

*

  
  


“Got your phone?”

“Yep.”

“Organiser, pens, pencils?”

Harry smiles softly, shouldering his bag. “Mum, I've got everything, promise.”

Anne smiles, though it's forced and Harry can tell she may be more nervous than he is. The summer, though as emotional and busy as it had been, had finally come to a close and before either of them knew it, September first had dawned bright and early. Harry's fingers toy with the frayed ends of the bracelet he never takes off, not any more, as he gives a small shrug of one shoulder. “I'll be fine.”

Visibly relaxing, Anne nods, pulling Harry into a hug. “I know you will, sweetheart.” she says softly, leaving a kiss atop of Harry's curls. “I know.”

And, the thing is, Harry honestly believes his words. Maybe he's grown up to quickly, maybe he shouldn't be fourteen going on twenty-five, full of optimism and the hope that everything has it's purpose and everything will turn out well, but he likes it. Likes the feeling of hope – that no matter what they do, no matter their screw ups, it'll be okay.

He carries this hope with him through the first day, the stares lessening until, by fourth period, it's almost as though the weeks leading up to last year's end of term didn't happen. True to student form, the kids are distracted by who's dating who, gossiping as they try to scribble out their summer assignments before class. Harry's not sure whether he likes it like this or not.

Law proves to be rather difficult, not necessarily academically, but more on a personal note as Mr. Dakes provides examples that strike a little too close to home. Harry knows what a crown court is, knows the procedures better than he knows his way to supermarket Anne had taken him shopping at since he was three years old, and he hates the reminder of that day. Still, he takes notes and tries not to make his discomfort too obvious. If he's going to be sat in this class for the next two years, Harry thinks reluctantly, he's going to have to desensitize himself. Fortunately, he finds comfort in the old music block, the smell of polished wood and crisp air from the windows that never fully close grounding him. He lands Lara as a teacher, a twenty-something, fresh out of university woman who refuses to be called 'Miss _'_ because she's certainly not old enough for that level of formality, _“thank you very much”,_ and he finds her brilliant. She has a way with instruments and swears that by the end of the year, Harry will be able to read sheet music like a pro. Harry very much doubts that, but he keeps quiet and smiles nevertheless.

Sociology is nothing to write home about. Though interesting at first, it's clear that it's a subject he'll have to drag himself out of bed to attend. He thinks it's partly to do with Mr Middleton's way of droning on and little to do with the actual syllabus, but even the latter isn't exactly gripping.

And thus, Harry leaves the building at the end of the day with a sigh of relief, feeling lighter than he has in a while.

It's not long before he falls into the routine of homework, games, dinner, homework, sleep, school, repeat. It's different, now. There's no morning and afternoon trips to the small shop and Anne makes him a packed lunch for dinner, instead. Different, but not entirely bad.

 

*

 

When Autumn fades into Winter, rain replaced by frost and the blind hope of snow, Harry falls ill. It's not the typical runny nose and sore throat type of ill, either; rather, he ends up spending a week and a half in bed, tissues piling up in the bedside bin and head too foggy to think about anything other than his current miserable state. Half way through the first week he becomes somewhat delirious, fever and dehydration muddling his brain so much that, when Anne comes up with some soup and water, he grabs her hand as soon as its free.

“Mum,” Harry croaks, eyes shining in a way that makes Anne's heart clench. “Mum, where's Louis?”

Anne tuts sympathetically before sitting on the edge of Harry's bed, sweeping his sweaty fringe from his forehead. “He's Not here, darling.”

Harry closes his eyes, pushing his head into Anne's hand as it moves to cup his cheek, thumb stoking over the heated skin.

“He said he'd always be there for me.” he shakes his head, whining softly in the back of his throat. “But he's not _here.”_

The last word gets caught in his throat, leaving with a pitiful sob as a tear falls from underneath his closed lashes. Anne wipes it away, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Oh, my baby boy...”

“I love him.” Harry cries, heavier now, as his body curls in on itself. “I love him, I love him, he said he loves me.”

For Anne, it's not the first time she's seen her son cry over a man she can't help but hate. It's instinct, Harry is her baby no matter how old he gets, and she knows him. He's a smart boy, always has been. Smart enough to know when something's not right – certainly smart enough not to give his heart away to the wrong person. And that's the hardest thing. She can't like Louis, can't stop her blood from boiling every time she hears his name; the age gap is too big and the law slaps the label 'paedophile' onto him so easily, it's a knee jerk reaction. But as much as she hates him, she knows that Harry loves him more so.

“It's okay, H.” Anne whispers, kissing his too warm forehead. “It's okay.”

Love is irrational. Anne knows this, knows it's not something you control. If it were, a lot of things would be different. She'd still be married, Harry's grandparents wouldn't have broken up, a twenty year old wouldn't be in prison. No, she doesn't like it, but she has to let it run its course nonetheless.

*

December sees harsh winds and heavy hail, and the twenty-fourth circled on Harry's calendar heavier than the twenty-fifth. It's the last visiting day for a week, Louis' birthday. The festive season is busy for all places, and prison is no exception. With half the staff and higher risks of power cuts, Louis finds himself facing his first Christmas without his mum and sisters by his side.

“That sucks,” Harry says, fingers toying with the bracelet on his wrist. The hall is decorated accordingly – a large tree stands in the corner, fenced off in case anybody tries to hang themselves with tinsel or use the more pointed ornaments as weapons. It's a charming place, really. “I'm – ”

“Don't you dare say, sorry” Louis interrupts, a soft smile on his face. He looks older, somehow. Not twenty-one, and with more worries than someone of his age should have to bear. “You've been getting so good, don't break that habit now. Not your fault.”

Harry nods, reaching across to hold Louis' hand. The guards don't really care, they've learned. Liam had opened up eventually, had said he saw more than a fetishized view of innocence between the two, had seen genuine trust and care, and that sometimes God was unfair when deciding peoples' lovers. Louis had just nodded, not wanting to offend him by asking if there was a God, why did he let him get stuck in here. Still, it was nice to hear.

“So what's the plan, then? Roast dinner in front of the t.v. At six, back in shackles and cells by seven?” Harry asks, tone dark with bitterness and though Louis knows it's not directed at him, he hates his boy sounding like that.

“Don't, love. It's -” he sighs, thumb brushing the skin of Harry's knuckles. “It's not all bad. We'll probably get an hour of footy in, if the weather's alright, so. You know.”

Harry doesn't know. He can't help but think about what they'd be like if their roles were reversed – if Harry were here and Louis were out. It'd be better. It'd be fair. He wants to tell Louis this, wants to tell him that it is his fault, no matter how much they want to pretend it's not. He wants to tell him that the left side of his bed is always cold and that he can't make tea the way Louis does, so he doesn't drink it at all. Instead he say:; “I'll miss you.”

Louis smiles, the lines around his eyes becoming more prominent. “It's just for a week, babe.”

Harry blushes, ducking his head to look at the table. He doesn't say that what he really means is _I miss you all the time._

_*_

Niall and Elle break up.

 

*

  
When Harry turns fifteen, it fees like he goes through a new pair of trousers every week, he's growing that fast. He'd like to call puberty a bitch, but it appears that she's taken him and made him hers. He dreams, more often than not, of that afternoon on Louis' couch; of Louis' hand around his cock and his mouth on his skin. He'll wake up painfully hard and out of breath, sliding a hand into his boxers to wank off quickly and somewhat unsatisfactory, because it's just not the same. He's too impatient to try slow, teasing strokes and too horny to bother switching it up a bit. When he comes, he does so with his hips bucking up off the mattress and his arm over his face, biting down on his forearm to muffle his moans. He can't call Louis' name, can't make much noise at all because he's not home alone and he feels guilty enough when Dusty jumps on his bed, down from the top of the wardrobe, looking unimpressed and as judgemental as a cat can get, swishing her tail in his face before leaving the room. He'd rather not have to deal with The Talk from his mum again, as well.

At sixteen, Harry fingers himself open for the first time. It's messy and uncomfortable; he's tight even after taking longer than usual in the bath, and the angle strains his wrist, but he manages to work himself up to three fingers before giving up. It's not what he thought it'd be like, it's not how he imagined it and Harry can't help but think about whether he's going to have to alter his fantasies a little. He's had it planned out for a while, Louis' first day free. Harry would bring him home, kiss him nice and deep before getting himself ready, putting on a bit of a show so Louis could fuck him however he wanted to. The thought makes his cock twitch and Harry bites his lip. No, he still wants it. Still wants Louis to mess him up, to be inside him. He feels achy and weird and he groans in frustration, wiping his fingers on the bedsheets, because he's doing it _wrong_ and he doesn't know what's right. It's okay, though. He's can figure it out – he's got seven years.

When Louis turns twenty-three, Harry's in his first year of college and doesn't have time to visit more than once a week. Aiden gets out not too long after that, the promise of a new year and a new start refreshing, but Louis feels more alone than he ever has. In truth, he's scared. He's scared about who's going to be moving in, about being made someone's bitch, because up until now he's been lucky – too lucky. He's got two friends, one of which can't acknowledge the fact because, while it may not be against the law, it's certainly frowned upon, and the other has his own problems to deal with. It'd be unfair to ask Zayn to keep an eye out for him, and Louis' own pride would refuse to let him do so, anyway.

The bed goes empty for three weeks, each passing day feeling like the vice around Louis' lungs is tightened until it's nearly unbearable. The day he feels like he's about to snap is the day when, at just gone four in the afternoon, the door swings open.

Louis sits up quickly, paper copy of Gatsby discarded to the side as his heart thumps wildly, like running footfalls on heavy concrete. Liam comes in first, carrying a small box and Louis frowns because Liam isn't as careless as to turn his back on someone new. He's confused and worried, nervously biting at his bottom lip until he tastes the coppery tang of blood. Then he sees him.

“Zayn?”

Zayn grins as Liam dumps the box on the empty bunk. “Alright, mate? Fancied a change of scenery, hope you don't mind.”

Louis' body sags a little, shoulders feeling lighter and breathing easier. “Twat.” he says fondly, shaking his head. “How did you get them to agree to this?”

Smirking a little, Zayn tilts his head in Liam's direction. Liam flushes under the attention. “I simply suggested to the board that, since Zayn's cell mate is leaving next week, it'd be much easier to have one cell completely empty than to have two only half full.”

“Ever the modest one,” Zayn adds. “He did more than that. Chased the enquiry until what's-his-name agreed just to get him to shut up about it. Good lad, our Liam is.”

Liam shakes his head, “I was an honest citizen before you two.” he chuckles, making his way over to the door. “Now I’m helping out criminals and being lead astray.”

“Much more fun, innit?” Zayn winks, and Liam rolls his eyes before shutting them in.

Louis hears the lock click and he falls back onto the bed, hands shaking. It feels like the dams are broken, now. The stress had been building up for so long and it's been over a year, a whole fucking _year_ since things have been okay.

“Thank you” he manages to choke out, before he covers his mouth with his hand, eyes screwing shut because _dammit,_ he's not going to cry over this, despite how much it means to him.

Zayn is beside him, then, pulling him into a hug so tight that Louis lets himself feel safe. Zayn rubs his back, mutters comforts into his ear and Louis wonders if this is why he's here: to have Zayn in his life, because in this moment he hates to imagine one where he doesn't.

“Thank you. Thank you, _thank you_.”

 

*

 

Visits blur into each other but they're still the best part of Louis' week. Harry's growing up, is the thing. He's no longer the freshly turned fourteen year old, nor is he the kid Louis used to see playing on the local park with his friends. He's tall, long limbs falling over each other as Harry still tries to get used to them. He's lost most of the baby fat that used to cling to his hips and stomach, looking leaner but still just as gorgeous. His lips look fuller, if that's possible. Soft and pink, and Louis wants to remind himself what they feel like against his own, but he can't. His boy is growing up and Louis' scared he won't know Harry at all, by the time he's done.

“I don't want to be a lawyer.” Harry says one day. Louis thinks his voice is at least an octave deeper than it had been the week before. Louis raises an eyebrow and hooks his ankle around Harry's calf, a sign that Harry should continue. “They're selfish and so objective. They generalise and they don't care if they're ruining other peoples' lives, just so long as they get their pay cheque at the end of a case.”

Louis' expression softens. “Hey,” he says, squeezing Harry's hand. “What's brought this on, hm?”

Harry bites his lip, is quiet for a few moments, mulling over his words. “There was a career fair at college.” he settles on, eyes meeting Louis'. “Had, like, stalls and everything. Made me realise some stuff. I don't want to become like them. I can't do to someone else what they did to us, Lou, I'd hate myself.”

Louis brings Harry's knuckles up to his mouth, kissing each bump softly. He doesn't say that people are just doing their jobs. He knows that's not what Harry wants to hear. “I'll support you with whatever you want to do, you know that, don't you?”

Harry nods, forcing a smile in reassurance. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Shaking his head, Louis links their fingers together, pressing his palm as close to Harry's as comfort allows. Harry's hands are bigger by the tiniest amount, unnoticeable if you weren't looking for it. They stay like that for the remaining few minutes, not letting go until Liam comes over, reluctantly telling them that their time is up. Louis sighs. “I'll see you next week?”

Harry nods, squeezes Louis' hand a final time before dropping it. “Next week.” he affirms, before turning towards the door. 

Louis watches, heart heavy as he watches the muscles in Harry's back work as he walks. He's grown familiar with the sight of Harry walking away, but something is different this time. There's an uneasy feeling in his stomach, something's wrong and Louis' not quite sure he wants to know what.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) I'm so sorry for the lack of updates. I should hate written a note last chapter - I had exams.  
> 2) This is a hell of a lot shorter than previous pieces; next week will hopefully be longer.  
> 3) As you can see, the estimated finish chapter has been bumped up to 7. This doesn't seem to want to end. (translation: I'm too lazy to write 10k for each part, and that's how many words it would have taken to get everything done in the originally planned 3 chapters)

Time passes and Louis begins to hope his worry had been nothing but the spawn of paranoia and delusion. Time passes and Harry starts to doubt even himself.

 Talk of university spreads around college and Harry finds prospectuses hidden everywhere; Niall's applying to Portsmouth, has known that ever since he decided on Music and Sound technology as his course. Harry had looked there, of course, wanting to have some sense of familiarity – a brief look at the website, but the thought of being 76 miles from Louis makes his chest clench uncomfortably. Anne suggests Cambridge and Harry nearly laughs. His grades have been good, yes, there's no doubt about that. Even through the media circus three years ago he'd remained teetering on the grade boundaries of As and Bs, but he's hardly Oxbridge material. If it weren't his council house upbringing that'd seal the envelope on his rejection letter, it'd be his relationship with the law. That's not something he wants dragging up again; not now, not ever. Still, he tucks the booklet into his desk draw, several courses bookmarked and a draft for his personal statement running through his mind.

 Coursework is tough, exams even tougher. Harry doesn't have time to realise that he's growing up, that he's not the same little boy he used to be. For Louis, though, it's harder. He sees his boy four times a month and it's as though he's getting taller and older each visit; he's living his life, and Louis' only a small part of it.

 “Have you ever been in love?” he asks Zayn one night, because Zayn's the one person he trusts and the one person he knows next to nothing about. He figures it's worth asking.

 Zayn hums, glancing at Louis from where he's sitting on the floor, back leaning against their desk. “Once.”

 For a moment Louis has to bite his lip to prevent from asking what happened, who they were. But he needn't have worried; the silence is filled with Zayn's voice and he's not looking at Louis any more.

 “She had the most beautiful soul. And these big blue eyes, always laughing.” he smiles fondly, lost in a memory that's over too quickly. The smile fades and Zayn visibly pulls himself together. “Then I got busted and I couldn't have her attached to me when she had so much potential. Broke her heart, haven't seen her since.”

 Louis' torn between going over, putting an arm around his mate and telling him it's okay, that he's sorry he asked. The other half wants to pull the quilt over his head and let guilt cripple him, because he's selfish. Zayn broke the heart of the girl he loved – loves, still – to give her a chance to thrive, and Louis' got Harry wasting a good portion of his youth in a prison room, tied down to a guy who should know better.

 “Shit.” he breathes out, eyes falling shut.

 “Yeah” Zayn says, scuffing his shoe against the hard floor. “Shit.”

  

*

  

“I've been looking into medicine.” Harry admits, picking at his nails. “I still want to help people, I figure I'd like to do it that way.”

 “That's amazing, H.” Louis smiles, reaching to separate Harry's hands. It's a bad habit. “You'd be an ace doctor.”

 Harry blushes, pulling back from Louis' grip to brush his fringe out of his face. “Cheers. I need to, like. Most places are asking for two As and a B, minimum. The good ones, they want three As, and I don't know if I can do that. My Bio teacher says I could, if I work hard enough, but the exam's 70% and you know I’m shit under pressure –”

 “Hey, hey calm down.” Louis soothes. “You can't do any more than your best – that's all anyone can ask of you. And, if it helps any, I believe in you.”

 It's cheesy, it's so fucking cheesy and Louis knows that – wonders what the hell Harry's been doing to him over the years, because if his teenage self could see him now, he'd be shocked. But then again, his teenage self never thought he'd be in prison. The way Harry smiles at him, however, (bright as though Louis' the bloody sun,) makes it all worth it.

  

*

  

“New meat coming in today.” Zayn says around his toothbrush, spitting just after Louis. “Nervous?”

 Louis washes his mouth out and fixes Zayn with a look. “Fuck that, mate.”

 Zayn grins, proud, like he has done the past three times he's received that response. They've come a long way, the two of them. “You going to pretend to be my bitch?”

 “Again,” Louis laughs, eyes crinkling. “Fuck that.”

 

 

*

  

“What if they hate me, Niall?” Harry groans, falling back onto his bed, revision completely forgotten.

 “Then they're out of their fuckin' minds” Niall says simply, scanning the notes for his composition class.

 Harry mutters something inaudible, rolling onto his stomach. “Really not helping.”

 “Really not trying to,” Niall grins. “You're going to walk into Northampton and blow them away, they'll be offerin' you a place on the spot, so stop shitting yourself.”

 Harry hums, tracing the pattern on the pillowcase. Northampton is his only his third option yet he's terrified for the interview. Interviews, however, are the easiest part – he's got five within the next month and a half, the UKCAT test isn't long away and Harry's scared, really God damned terrified, that he's going to fuck it all up.

 “Maybe,” he hums, feeling sick.

  

*

  

Louis hates group therapy. There's a murderer to his left and a drug smuggler to his right, Zayn's in a different group and Liam's supervising in the corner. Joey's giving him a dirty look from across the room and it'll soon be his turn to talk. He really hates group therapy.

 “Louis, how have you been since we last spoke?” Anna asks. There's lipstick on her teeth and Louis doesn't feel up to pointing it out.

 “Just dandy.” he replies.

 Anna purses her lips as she scans the paper in front of her. “Still getting regular visits from your friend, I see. How do they make you feel?”

 Louis shifts uncomfortably. He really, really, _really_ hates it.“Maybe that's a topic for individual therapy.”

 “Maybe.” Anna says, but doesn't look away. “Why do you think that? Are you embarrassed?”

 Louis bites his gum to stop from making a comment that'll most likely get him into trouble. “No,” he settles on, tone harsher than intended. “I've discussed visits with Cora before. It's information I'd like to keep between her and I.”

 “Ashamed, then.” Anna suggests, pen scraping against paper.

 “No.” Louis says exasperatedly. “Not at all, I just –”

 “Paul,” Anna interrupts, shifting her attention. “How are you?”

  

*

  

Harry has a panic attack two weeks before his eighteenth birthday, sitting on the kitchen floor trying to force his body to breathe out. Anne finds him like that, gasping and shaking, and it takes nearly twenty minutes for her to bring him out of it. He lies, tells her it's the first time it's happened that he's _fine, really, don't worry about it._ Anne;s hesitant but leaves it at that, makes Harry promise that if it ever happens again, he'll let her take him to a doctor.

 He doesn't want to cause trouble, is the thing. He's done enough of that in his life and having Anne worry over him when she's flooded with work is the last thing she needs. He's nearly eighteen, nearly an adult and Louis' been inside for nearly four years. Nearly half his sentence, nearly all Harry's teenage years. Sat in the kitchen with his head between his knee's, he's calmed down; with that thought, he feels sick.

  

*

 

 Belmarsh yard isn't so much a yard, as it is a large cemented area with a few metres of grass towards the side. The air is bitter cold, rain spitting down against Louis' pink wind-flushed skin, and he wouldn't normally be out here; most sane people are inside, layering up jumpers to fight against the biting January weather, but Zayn had needed a cigarette and Crowe had narrowed his eyes when he'd tried to go out alone, suspicion rising. Louis' a fucking good friend, let that be remembered.

 “Suck it up,” Zayn says, blowing out smoke. “S'not that bad.”

 Louis huffs, wrapping his arms tighter around himself as he hops from one foot to the next, chin tucked down by his jumper neckline. “Says Mr. I'm too cool to be affected by sub-zero temperatures.”

 “Hyperbole.” Zayn grins, this time deciding to breathe smoke directly into Louis' face. “And the cold never bothered me anyway.”

 Spluttering, Louis fans a hand in front of his face, nose itching. “You twat, you did _not_ just quote that kids film.”

 Zayn shrugs and Louis weighs his options. “If I let it drop, can I get a bit closer? It's fucking freezing, no matter what you say. My balls are going to drop off if I don't do something soon.”

 “That'd be a shame.” Zayn muses, but shifts so there's room enough for Louis to lean against the wall with him. Louis does so, crowding in until their sides are pressed flush together, and it's not warmer than the radiator that Louis' been eyeing through the common room window, but it'll do.

 A comfortable silence falls between the two, Louis' eyes fall on the end of the cigarette, watching as end glows and fades with each puff. It's calming; his eyes begin to blur, the wind bringing tears to them and it's pretty, that smudge of orange. Soon enough, though, the chattering of Louis' teeth brings him back to the present, and he turns to press his face into Zayn's shoulder, seeking warmth.

 Zayn blows out again and Louis hears him clear his throat, is about to pull back when he hears Zayn speak. “I like the cold.”

 His voice is quiet, as if he's unsure, and Louis' known Zayn longer than he's known the cooks often disregard best before dates, but he's not known him to sound like that.

 “Been here seven years and I've got another eight to go. There was a guy giving my missus trouble, wouldn't take no for an answer. I wanted to scare him off, you know, make him stop. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous, he was supposed to see it and put it out before –” Zayn cuts himself off and takes another drag of the cigarette. Louis closes his eyes, the coarse fabric of Zayn's jumper smells like smoke and he's getting used to it.

 “I was an idiot. I was 17, in love, and an idiot. I put a firework through their letterbox. He'd snuck out that night; his baby sister was stuck inside. He didn't put it out.”

 Louis' finding it hard to breathe.

 “I like the cold. Kind of feels like karma, in a way. Like fucked up irony.”

 The cigarette stump is thrown to the ground, Zayn stands on it, crushing it under his shoe as Louis pulls back.

 “C'mon,” Louis says, letting out a shaky breath. “Let's go back inside.”

  

*

  

Harry's wearing Louis' jumper and it's snug, the sleeves falling a little too short and Harry dreads the day he can't wear it any more; hates to think what's going to happen then, because sleeping with the damn thing is a tad too pathetic. Louis laughs.

"You could never be pathetic, love." he says softly, a smile quirking up his lips.

"You're bias," Harry rolls his eyes, voice low and soothing to Louis' ear. "M'pretty sure Niall's got some stories from P.E. that are pretty grim."

"Hmm," Louis tucks his foot behind Harry's ankle, eyes glinting with mirth. "True. You are particularly awful when it comes to that. But let's pretend otherwise, for now."

Harry smiles. "I love -"

Crowe blows a whistle, the shrill noise making Harry flinch. 

Louis' gaze drops to the table, fingers fidling with a thread on his shirt. "Me too, H." he whispers. "Me, too."

  

*

  

Exams are just as terrible as Harry had predicted. The UKCAT makes him feel like an idiot and he can only hope and pray his score is good enough for at least one of his University choices. His psychology exam had been hell and by the time he steps out of the exam hall he never wants so sit A-levels again. Offers have been released, Niall's got Portsmouth and there's a small bundle of letters shoved in Harry's sock draw – he's too nervous to read them. 

Posters are put up around college, the end of year prom is just under two months away, exams filling the time between now and then. 

"We'll go as a group," Niall says at lunch, fork pushing his salad around. "You, me, Amy - apparently Chad's been shacking up with Mel behind her back, bloody twat -"

"Niall -"

"So it'll be cool, who needs dates, yeah? Fuck it."

"Niall, I don't know if I want to go." Harry sighs, setting his fork down.

"My uncle can lend us his car, so - wait, what? H, mate, you have to!" Niall's face scrunches up, as though someone had let off a stink bomb, or told him his nan's hamster passed away. If he weren't feeling so crappy, Harry might have laughed.

"I'm not going to go just to pretend that i'll miss everyone once we move on, to pretend that we were all the best of friends, put aside every bad fucking thing that's happened here and pretend some more. All everyone does is  _pretend_ these days" Harry says, biting his lip. "It's exhausting, Ni."

Niall moves onto the chair next to Harry's, arm around his waist and chin propped on his shoulder before he's even registaring the move. "Harry," he starts; soft, only for them to hear. "You've been my best friend for ages.  I love you like you're me bother, fuck, you practically are in all senses but blood, and i'm not going to pressure you into doing something you don't want, yeah?" He waits until he sees Harry nod before continuing. "But somethin' tells me you don't just mean prom when you say that." 

Harry stills beside him.

"I ain't going to say I know what you feel right now, I ain't going to say what you should and shouldn't be doing, but one thing - if you listen to one thing I ever tell you, H, it's got to be this: make yourself happy. You can't do right by other people if you aren't doing so by yourself. Sometimes... sometimes you have to be selfish."

  

*

  

It's Saturday and Louis feels alive. He counts his weeks Saturday to Saturday; it's the best day of the week and he tells Zayn so, smile bright. He sees Harry on Saturdays. Liam's late picking him up this week but it doesn't matter, he's usually early and so Louis tells himself he'll get there when Harry does, that Harry will wait even if he doesn't. He knows Harry will wait. 

"C'mon, Liam." he murmurs to himself, pacing the cell.

Zayn's sprawled on his bed, half propped up, reading. "If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day." he drawls, and Louis glances at the cover.  _Wuthering Heights._ "Charming."

Louis hums. "That's depressing as shit."

Zayn raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "It's a classic."

"It's depressing." Louis retorts. "Fucks sake, where  _is_ he."

The door unlocks and Louis grins, stepping back. He's probably psychic, clairvoyant, something along those lines. Liam enters and he looks nervous but Louis can't bring himself to ask. He's seeing his boy. 

"Zayn, your sister's here." 

Zayn stands and Louis makes to follow them both out of the room but Liam pauses, turns to face him with pitying eyes. "Not today, Louis."

Time pauses and his words are like a blow to the gut. Louis feels winded. "What do you mean?" he asks, and he hates how fragile his voice sounds,  _pathetic._

"Your visitation form - it came back declined."

Zayn averts his gaze, drops it to the floor.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong,_  Louis' heart beats in his ears. He's wrong. Harry promised. "No, no he said he was coming. Stop pissing about, Liam, it's not funny." 

Liam worries his lip. "Maybe next week, Lou." 

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong._ The words chant like a mantra as the door closes shut. Louis finds himself on the bed, eyes blurry.  _Promise, promise, promise._

 

 

_*_

 

Next week comes. Harry doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My final words before I run and hide are 'don't hate me' and 'come on, you knew the angst was coming'. Um, sorry?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolute trash, I'm so sorry.
> 
> As a some of you know, I was very ill for a few weeks. Recovery was immediately followed by deadlines and I just didn't have time to write.

 

 

Louis' fine. He can't sleep because every time he rolls over, he sees the damn collage of pictures Harry's been bringing since he was fourteen, and he eats the bare minimum because the ache in his chest is suffocating – so much so he can barely breathe, let alone swallow, but he's fine.

 

He switches bunks with Zayn three days after Harry misses his second visit. It doesn't help much.

 

 

.

 

 

It's February and the ground is covered in a thin sheet of snow. It's not likely to stay. Louis hadn't realised he'd missed it; it's beautiful and ephemeral and if that's some kind of fucked up metaphor for his life, Louis is so done.

 

“Still hate the cold, now?” Zayn asks, rolling a ball of snow from one hand to the other. Louis eyes it suspiciously.

 

“If that goes anywhere near my face, I swear to God mate, you won't be sleeping tonight.”

 

Zayn smiles and carries on playing with the ball. If Louis were up to it, he'd make some rude remark. He doesn't.

 

“It's not like Canada, anyway.” is what he says instead, stuffing his hands inside his pockets. “They get, like, a shit tonnes. This is pathetic in comparison, like – _fuck!_ ” Louis breathes in sharply, the biting chill of snow prickling his skin. It's clumped together on his eyelashes, falling onto his cheeks and turning his face pink. Zayn looks all too smug as Louis rubs his face clear, hands shaking with the cold. “You utter twat!”

 

“Lighten up” Zayn says, a glint in his eyes. “Transfer to Canada if you're that jealous” he adds with humour in his voice, before walking further out into the courtyard.

 

“I _am_ light,” Louis scoffs, kicking up snow with his shoe. “A ray of sunshine, even.”

 

He follows after Zayn, but not before saying, nearly silent: “We were going to go to Canada.”

 

 

.

 

 

_Dear Harry,_

 

_Can I say that? 'Dear'. It's always seemed very affectionate to me, and I don't know if you want that any more. Don't cut any corners, do I?_

 

_Whatever I said or did, I'm sorry. I'm not going to say that I don't miss you because I do. I fucking miss you and that's not fair, not when you've got so much to do in life, but I can't keep moping around like an abandoned kitten. I need to know why. We made a promise to each other and you're breaking it. You're breaking me, and I don't know how much longer I can wait for you to come back._

 

_I shouldn't have said that._

 

_Sorry._

 

 

.

Louis writes a lot of letters but doesn't send them. They're stuffed under his – Zayn's – pillowcase and after the fourth he tells himself he won't write any more. He knows he won't keep to that; it's therapeutic, in a strange way, but Louis likes the idea that there's some part of himself that isn't a masochist for self destruction. He pours a lot of his soul into the ink and likes the idea that there's some part of him Harry hasn't touched – that there's some part of him that isn't an emotional wreck.

 

He thinks maybe he's overreacting, that he should get a grip and get a rebound because he's only twenty-four, he's got the rest of his life in front of him, but then he remembers that he's got five more years behind bars, five years of looking over his shoulder and checking the soap before he washes in case somebody's hidden a razor blade in it. That doesn't seem like much of a life.

 

(The thing is, the _thing is,_ he took a sentence for Harry. He took time for somebody that he loves, and Harry can't even take the time to let him know he's okay, or even where they stand. Louis figures this is as good as a break up. He also figures everyone can go to hell if they think he's letting his sacrifices be brushed aside that easily.)

 

 

.

 

 

“I never, like, got it.” Zayn says carefully. “No, wait, hear me out – I had conflict with myself for weeks over you. I should have hated you, just like everyone else. He was a kid, Lou, it was so messed up. I was prepared to beat the shit out of you in the showers.”

 

Louis' heart stutters for a moment, Zayn is fully capable of hurting him and sometimes he forgets that Zayn's the kind of person you're supposed to be scared of, but the reasonable part of his brain catches up with him, reminds him that if Zayn were going to hurt him, he would have done so by now.

 

“But then I saw you together. I remember the first time I did – he was looking at you like you hung the stars, and I couldn't see your face, but I knew it would have been the same. He loved you just as much as you loved him,”

 

_Loves,_ Louis wants to correct. He loves Harry, doesn't think he could ever stop. Doesn't think he wants to, either.

 

“Objectively it's wrong, you know that” (Louis nods because he does – he spent many a sleepless night mulling over that when it first started) “but when it comes to the two of you... I don't know. Makes me question what God could be cruel enough to give soulmates such impossible circumstances.”

 

Louis' head snaps up. “Soulmates?”

 

Zayn flushes and averts his gaze. If Louis had control of this thoughts, he'd remind himself to tease Zayn for blushing. “Or whatever.” he mumbles, and Louis cackles, throwing the pillow.

 

“You sap!” he grins, and for the first time in weeks, it's not entirely fake. For the first time in weeks, Louis thinks he can breathe.

 

 

.

 

 

It's late March when Louis gathers the letters, shoves them all in one envelope, and sends them off. He trades three of Zayn's cigarettes in order for Mal, an assistant in the post office, to put them through without being checked. Zayn won't be thrilled but Louis figures he won't mind that much. Can't come between soulmates, and all that.

 

He manages to make it to dinner before he's skittish, on edge because what if he's messed up? What if Harry doesn't want to hear from him? Zayn shoves a slice of bacon in his face (“they can all it crispy all they want, it's fucking burned”) and he welcomes the distraction, trading two potatoes for the rest.

 

Liam and Fields (A guard Louis' never interacted with before) come in, then, and at first they go unnoticed – everyone's muttering to each other, eating as quickly as possible for fear the food will disappear – but a shrill whistle pierces the air, causing chatter to cease.

 

“You have five minutes,” Liam announces loudly. “Then every prisoner will be escorted to their cells, where they will remain for the duration of the night, until further notice.”

 

Zayn schools his features into nonchalance but Louis knows he's confused, as are most on their table. He and at least 30 others are scheduled in for late counselling, and although he'd never tell Louis, Louis knows Zayn finds comfort in that hour. In the years that Louis' been here, he's never known this to happen.

 

When their time is up, tables are escorted out in single file, and Louis begins to feel uneasy.

 

“What's going on?” he asks quietly, as Liam takes them back to block B.

 

Liam's silent for a moment, eyes scanning the line. After making sure everyone is accounted for, he slips his baton into its holder, not looking at Louis as he answers.

 

“There's been an attack. One of the new lads found in the laundry room, bloodied up to no end. Still unconscious.” he frowns. “No sign of who did it.”

 

The line keeps moving but Louis feels cold, a sick twisting in his stomach. He remembers being new, remembers being beaten in the showers. He clears his throat.

 

“Which newbie was it?”

 

Liam looks torn as he pushes open the block doors. “You know I can't tell you that.”

 

And sometimes Louis forgets there are lines in their friendship; ones that cannot be crossed. He's still not used to it. “No, of course. Sorry.”

 

 

.

 

 

Back in the cell, Louis tells Zayn what little he's managed to learn. It's shit, is what it is. There's attacks all the time, never taken this seriously, and Louis wonders why it's different this time. Wonders why one guy is so special in this hell hole of misfits.

 

(He finds out soon enough.)

 

It takes just over a day for the story to leak. A day of extra guards monitoring every activity and rules being enforced in a manner stricter than the day Louis first arrived. The kid was eighteen, supposed to be in for sixteen weeks with an additional month of community service post-release. Died in the ICU four hours after being found. He was eighteen, not much older than Harry, and Louis just might throw up.

 

“Life really is short” he whispers one night, staring at the white-washed ceiling above him.

 

Beneath him, Zayn grunts. “Yours will be if you don't let me sleep.”

 

Louis smiles a little, a small tug at the corners of his lips. “It's just a series of random moments, good and bad and everything in between.”

 

“M'serious, Tommo.”

 

“Yeah.” Louis nods, though the motion is lost to the darkness. “Night.”

 

 

.

 

 

April arrives in a state of near permanent rainfall. Things go back to normal once Peters is caught, charged with manslaughter and transferred elsewhere to serve out his extended sentence. Things are normal, but they're not right. Louis still hasn't heard from Harry and although he tells himself it's fine, that he has no claim on him (despite how much of his heart has been given away to the boy), he can't stop the hurt.

 

Crowe delivers the news a week later.

 

Harry's called, Harry's _called_ , he's made contact and he's requesting a visit and Louis' heart is racing against his ribs. He's also very, very pissed.

 

“Months!” he hisses, curled into the corner of the couch. The common room is crowded, full of chatter, but Louis doesn't want anyone but Zayn to hear this. It's not safe. “I haven't heard from him in months, and now he's coming back, expecting me to just let him in –”

 

Zayn tilts his head. “You wrote to him, though. And I’m assuming you accepted the request?”

 

“Of course I accepted, you twit.” Louis sighs, fingers running through his too-long hair. “That's the _point._ He ignored my letters, left me hanging, and I’m still as fucking gone for him as I was four years ago.”

 

“Have you ever thought,” Zayn says, fond in his eyes. “that he has a good reason for being AWOL?”

 

Louis stills for a moment,worrying his bottom lip. Of course he's thought about it, reasons and worry is all that's been going through his mind since the first week. He's quiet when he replies: “It hurt me a lot, mate. _He_ hurt me a lot.”

 

Zayn's expression softens. “I know.”

 

 

.

 

 

The visit happens on Tuesday. Louis doesn't sleep the night before, or if he does it's fitful and leaves him just as exhausted as if it had never happened. Liam, as if sensing his anxiousness, comes to fetch him five minutes early; takes him the long way around to kill time, and Louis' stomach is so twisted he thinks he might faint.

 

“I can't do this, Li, I can't see him.” he murmurs, eyes wide.

 

“You know,” Liam says, “he's been here for half an hour, waiting until it's time. Looks almost as bad as you.”

 

If Louis weren't so nervous, he'd be offended. Instead, he stops. “He's been here for _half an hour?_ Why didn't you tell me? Better yet, why wasn't I brought out sooner?”

 

Liam smiles, tugs Louis along as they approach the door. “Stop blabbering on and go talk to your boy.”

 

Louis doesn't even have a moment to compose himself as he's pushed into the room, eyes locking on a pair of Ivy greens almost instantly. It's cliché, it's stupid, it's straight from a Nicholas Sparks' novel, and it's wonderful. Louis approaches the table, hands shaking by his side as he tries to think of something intelligent to say; something witty. His mind is blank.

 

Harry looks – Harry looks fucking awful. His eyes are bloodshot, glossy, as though he's been crying. His lips, full and red and chapped, are the result of biting at them anxiously (Louis ignores the fact he knows this, know this boy better than he knows himself), and his hair is pulled back from his face, unwashed and unruly. To Louis, he's absolutely beautiful.

 

“Hi.”

 

Harry smiles but it's wobbly, as though he's trying not to cry. “Hey yourself.”

 

Louis sits down, hands in his lap. He's never felt like this before, not with Harry. It's quiet. They're facing each other, less than a meter of space between them yet Louis' never felt further from Harry.

 

“I'm sorry.” Harry says, voice cracking. “I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have –”

 

“No,” Louis cuts across. “Stop. You shouldn't have just stopped like that, not letting me know you were okay. You shouldn't – fuck, you shouldn't have... I shouldn't have put you in the position between choosing to live your life, and loving me.”

 

Harry looks as though he's about to object, so Louis carries on, eyes trained on the wall behind Harry's head because if he meets his eyes he'll never look away.

 

“I never expected you to wait for me, Harry. I told you as such. But you said you would. You promised you'd wait and you broke that. Your words are worth shit right now,” he's being mean, he knows he is, but all the frustration – all the hurt, the pain and the confusion – of the last few months has been building up to this. The scales have tipped and it's falling out. “So I need to you tell me why. Explain me that. Tell me why.”

 

Harry blinks quickly, Louis' heart squeezes uncomfortably and he wants to reach out and hug his boy, tell him it's okay and they can forget all about it, but he doesn't. He can't.

 

Harry looks down. “I was so in love with you.” he starts, and Louis feels cold until he continues. “Still am, I mean. I love you more than anything, Lou, you have to believe that. You and I, it makes sense. But I saw you in here every week, somewhere you don't belong. I kept seeing that for _years_ at it hurt. It hurt so much sometimes that I couldn't breathe.” Looking up, Harry's eyes are watery and Louis' sure his aren't too dissimilar. “I just didn't want to hurt any more.” he finishes, quietly.

 

Louis opens his mouth, words caught in his throat. “Why – why did you come back?”

 

Harry's response comes slowly, but it's honest. “I realised I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all.”

 

And, really, that's all Louis needs to know. They're not broken, they're not completely okay either, but they'll manage. Right now he just needs to hold Harry's hand. So he does. It's kind of like coming home, the way Harry's fingers slide between his own so easily. It's right.

 

"If you ever do that to me again," he says softly, "I'm not going to be okay, you understand that, H? Never do that again."

 

"I won't" Harry says quickly, squeezing Louis' hand. "I won't, I swear."

 

Louis nods, bringing their joined hands up to kiss Harry's knuckles. "So," he says, "Tell me how you've been."

 

Harry launches into stories of college, voice straining against the threat of tears, but this time they're happy. He clutches Louis' hand tight, never letting go, and Louis lets the contact ground him. Everything's shifting back into place, the world is back on it's axis. It's okay. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trash???
> 
> 1) I'm very very sorry. It's been... far too long. I left the 1D fandom around a year ago and have been happier and healthier for it. I still ship Louis and Harry, will still write and finish my works, but in case some details are amiss, let's blame it on the fact this is an AU and not that I've probably forgotten 80% of my fandom knowledge.  
> 2) As it has been so long, it's taken me a while to get used to my characters again. I think I've got them down, but just in case there are a few things that seem odd, please call me out on them. Likelihood is, I've overlooked a small revelation made at some point in the last n-thousand words, which changed the way I wrote a certain thing.  
> 3) I hope you like it?

 

 **Twenty and twenty-six**. 

 

Harry's in his second year at King's College London, studying medicine, playing guitar at the local pub for a flexible income when he's got a night off studying, and visits his boyfriend fortnightly at a prison only 11 miles from his dorm room. It's April and London is covered with scattered rainfall at every possible interval, light showers that drench you within moments to heavy downpour, fat drops of water hammering on glass windows so strong that Harry fears for his room deposit. He's also, currently, rather drunk. 

 

"I love  _you_ " he sings, high pitched, as he plants a sloppy kiss on the the sketch of a blooming lily taped to his wall. Louis had taken up art as a means to kill time little over a year ago, and the evidence of such is pinned all around Harry's flat. There's a low thrum of laughter as Harry turns around, grinning, and faces the friends he's made during his time here. "Perrie!" Harry decides, stumbling back to the circle and tucking his legs under him, sitting somewhat awkwardly.  There's too much vodka running through his bloodstream to currently care about the pins and needles he's inevitably giving himself - all that's important is that Josh wasted a dare telling him to snog a picture, when Harry could give two shits about who knows he's besotted with everything Louis produces, and it's his turn now. "Truth or dare?"

 

"Oh, shit." Perrie giggles, taking another shot of malibu and screwing her face up as she deals with the too-sweet aftertaste. "Do your worst, Mr. Styles. Truth." 

 

Perrie's an arts and humanities student, first year post-grad English and closer to Louis' age than the rest of them, but an unmistakably a part of the group. 

 

"What," Harry starts, swaying to and fro subconsciously, "is - oh, no, hang on. What's the one thing you would never have told us, unless you were dared to tell us?"

 

There are  _oooh_ s and giggles, but Harry just smiles like he's asked about her favourite dog, because he's happy and has finally finished all essays for the final term, and in two days he's seeing Louis for the first time in what feels like forever, but has only been three weeks due to deadlines and assessments. He misses the moment of hesitation in Perrie's eyes, the ways her fingers clench and unclench in the fabric of her skirt, before she shrugs ever so slightly because  _fuck it_ , she's drunk too, and it's been years. 

 

"I have an ex." She smiles, a little nostalgic but not sober enough really feel the hurt like she used to. "Loved him so much... like, he was my first everything. But he did some shit, s'in prison now. We broke up." Perrie looks at Harry, squints to get him in focus before giggling without humour. "Didn't want to tell you because I didn't want  _that_ to be the reason we bonded. He was a fucker, but I loved him." Her smile falls slowly, expression suggesting she's a million miles away, and Harry feels that small twinge in his heart at the thought of losing Louis over prison. 

 

They've come a long way since their miscommunication, nearly two years ago now. They're so close, so close to making it out. Liam had told Louis that with his good behaviour, he could be out in January, and that thought is what beats away in the back of his mind from day to day.Harry's pretty sure he wants to marry that man, the one who's loved him all throughout puberty and adolescence. He wants to be able to hold him every day for the rest of his life, not letting go for love nor money. He doesn't know what he would have done if he hadn't gone back, if he'd have been more like Perrie and less like the selfishly stubborn git he is. He'll never find out, if luck goes his way. 

 

"Still," Perrie smiles, raises her glass and surveys the room. "Here's to Heathcliff, my one truest love in life."

 

There's laughter and a toast, the arts students breaking into debate about Heathcliff's immorality ("No, seriously, he's mentally disturbed. Freud would have had a field day -" "But it's  _romantic,_ Rebecca!") and Harry turns to Niall who's down visiting for the weekend, still too sober for Harry's liking.

 

"Hey, less talk-y, more booze-y." 

 

Niall chuckles around a can of Stella, shaking his head. "I've had more than you, mate. You're just a lightweight."

 

"Am  _not._ " Harry says, and a braver man would have called him out for pouting. Niall, however, knows that Harry is by now familiar with at least six different ways to kill a man by hand, and has contacts on the inside who would gladly do it for him, leaving no trace of evidence behind. _('_ _Science',_ Harry had called it. ' _Need to know basic biology to be a doctor, and basic biology tells me which parts of the body are going to hurt more than others. And, okay, so it's morbid curiosity... did you_ see _Dexter last week?'_ ). It's not that Niall's not a brave man, just that he's got more smarts than brawns and he'd rather like to make it to graduation, thanks very much.  _  
_

 

"So how's lover boy? Excited t'see you?"

 

Harry grins. "You have no idea."

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 "Today I want to talk about guilt." Cora starts, perfectly poised to face the half circle in front of her. Group therapy was something Louis' grown not to mind, too much. He stays quiet most days, speaking out every now and then to make sure his record says something the state wants to hear, but it's nice. Seeing Ben open brought down a peg or two, Jack coming to terms with his disorderly behaviour, growing from it and starting a-new. It's sort of hopeful, in a strange way. 

 

"It was once written that there is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution. Can anyone tell me where that's from?"

 

 _Dorian Gray,_ Louis thinks, and pulls the cuffs of his sleeves over his hands, fingers playing with a loose thread. His shirts are looser these days; afternoons spent kicking the football someone found near the fence around the courtyard, and the new menu that barely passess as food, has seen him loose a few pounds. It's not a  _thing_ , not really something to be concerned about, but that small voice in the back of Louis' mind is glad that Harry's been busy with University that visiting has been difficult. The last thing his boy needs, what with deadlines and the stress of arranging the next year's student finance loans, is to worry about whether or not Louis' ticking off the food groups at dinner. 

 

"Oscar Wilde." Louis mumbles, after several beats of silence. The kid next to him, no older than nineteen he guesses, visibly relaxes as the question is answered. Louis resists the urge to smile comfortingly. Kid could probably kill him, still might one day. No sympathy for the devil when you're living in hell.

 

"That's right." Cora nods. "Wilde himself was arrested in 1895, paid his penance through hard labour, just as all of you are doing."

 

"Yeah, but he didn't do anything wrong." Louis says bitterly, words leaving his mouth before he can bite them back.  _Shit._  

 

The sides of Cora's mouth twitch, a small smile held in, and Louis wants to kick himself. Today was clearly not going to be a quiet one. 

 

"No, not now. Laws do change, though, and in 1895 he had to answer for his crimes just like everybody else. Does anybody here think their crime was not their fault?" A pause. "Tomlinson?" 

 

Shaking his head, Louis lets his gaze fall to his slipper-clad feet. Toe scuffing the worn tiles beneath him, he looks up to meet expectant eyes. He knows this dance by now. "No. I was in the wrong." 

 

Cora smiles encouragingly, though pen hovering over her notebook. "Because?"

 

Louis sighs. "Because people of certain ages are not mature enough, nor legally able to, consent to certain acts with people who are. I get it, now."

 

The sun is bright overhead and rays are falling on Louis' back, heating his skin. He's warm, but not sweating, heartbeat steady. He's trained himself for these questions, practised the answers in his mind over and over.  _Give the people what they want,_ Harry had told him once, playing with his fingers above the table. That's something they've been able to do, since Harry turned eighteen. One of the small luxuries patience had given them.  _'Cause I know you love me, and you know I love you. And they don't know about us, so just tell them whatever you need to so that you can come home to me soon, yeah?_

 

 _Yeah,_ Louis had responded, squeezing his hand.  _Yeah, I can do that._

 

The scratching of pen on paper goes on as Cora turns her attention to Ben. "Now," she says, face impassive. "let's discuss the fight from yesterday. I know at least three of you here were involved. Do you feel guilty about that?"

 

Louis slouches in his seat, arms folded in front of him as his chin meets his chest.  Thirty-five minutes of the session are left, and he considers his contribution now well and truly over.

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

Visitation is two days away. Visitation is two days away, and Harry doesn't think he's ever been more excited. He says as much to Perrie as they're standing in line in the library cafe, overpriced coffee and sandwich clutched in one hand. 

 

"Oh, i'm sure you have." Perrie smiles good-naturedly, head shaking in that fond way only she can seem to manage.  

 

"It's been weeks.  _Weeks!_ "

 

" _Three._ " she chuckles, rummaging in her bag for her purse. 

 

"Which is two and a half longer than I would have liked." he grumbles, handing his change over to the cashier before grabbing the table closest to the window, Perrie following shortly after. 

 

"You just finished clinical practise, your were up 'till midnight every other day working on your papers, alongside extra research for biomed. For  _fun._ Harry, you're going to have so much to tell him, neither of you will begrudge the extra time apart. It'll be okay." 

 

Harry nods, picking at the plastic lid to his disposable coffee cup. "I know, I just..."

 

"Miss him."

 

Harry nods, fingers going to the frayed shoelace bracelet around his wrist. It's been tied and taped and knotted back together so many times over the past few years that Harry's surprised it's still in one piece. Surprised, but relieved. He's not ready to say goodbye to it yet, to those hot summer days it stands for; to the days he was a naive kid in love, and Louis was his own miracle. Neither he nor Louis are the same people they were at fourteen and twenty, both older and more mature. Both in love still, because Harry doesn't think there's a person alive, boy, girl or otherwise, that could make him feel even akin to the way Louis does, but it's different now. Putting Louis on a pedestal as this perfect, older boy wasn't good for either of them. So he keeps the bracelet, because he and Louis are both imperfect in the way that's just right for one another, and he'll be damned if this jewellery breaks before he can make a promise with another.

 

"One day I'm going to marry that man." Harry says softly, raising his coffee to take a generous sip. 

 

Perrie looks stunned for a moment, but not entirely surprised. "As long as you're sure." She smiles around the rim of her cup. 

 

Nails tracing a pattern into the cheap styrofoam, Harry thinks of visitation and the warm feeling curling in his stomach. "Yeah," he says, never more certain. "I am."

 

 

 

*

 

 

 " _Doctor_ Harry Styles," Louis grins, foot knocking lightly against Harry's shin under the table. "I like how that sounds."

 

"I have to graduate, yet" Harry says, returning the smile.

 

There's a warmth in his chest that stirs whenever he looks at his boyfriend. It's been a while since he's felt overwhelmed by his feelings for Louis, since he felt like a kid with a too-big crush on someone too perfect, but he's still just as in love. It's better now, healthier. He gets butterflies every time their eyes lock, but Harry knows that Louis is human, and loves him just as much. 

 

"Yeah, but you will" says Louis, voice fond. "And I'll be so, so proud of you. As soon as I'm... as soon as I'm  _out,_ we'll celebrate. I'll make us dinner, we'll go somewhere nice."

 

He breathes around the word 'out', the prospect daunting and closer than he ever thought possible. He's got nine months if his application for early release is approved. Nine months, and he can be with Harry like he’s always wanted to. He’s never really thought far past that, never thought about what they’d do – dinners on the couch, drinks at the local pub, going for walks just because they could… His thoughts are usually tainted with the knowledge that he’s got more years inside, but he’s nearly done. Nearly free.

 

“As long as I get to be with you, that’s all I need.” Harry says softly, squeezing the hand he holds in his own.

 

One of the guards looks at their hands, joined and resting on the table top, with distaste. There’s nothing he can do, though, and Louis holds back a smug smile, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

 

 

“I can’t wait to kiss you.” Harry whispers, thumb grazing over Louis’ knuckles.

 

Louis looks up, eyes wider, like a deer caught in the headlights. He’s thought about it, of course he has. Of Harry’s plump lips on his own, hands knotted into his hair. Slow kisses, lazy and romantic. Kisses fuelled with passion, a promise of something more. He’s never heard Harry’s voice take on _that_ tone before, though.

 

“When I get to take you home, I’m going to make you feel so good, Lou. Going to cook you the best Italian food, start filling you up a bit.”

 

Swallowing, Louis starts to bite at his bottom lip, a flush rising across his skin. Harry’s hand feels like fire around his own, and it’s not until now that Louis realises that while he loves Harry, wants to hold him, he also really, really, _really_ wants Harry to fuck him.

 

“After I’d take you to our room, _our_ room. There’s not going to be a single inch of you that I won’t have touched, going to stretch you around my fingers, make you come apart on those alone.”

 

While he says it, Harry raises their hands and starts toying with Louis’ fingers, kissing the tips to punctuate his words.

 

“I want you in my mouth, cock so heavy on my tongue. Bet you’ll taste so good –”

 

Louis breathes in heavily, shakily, and shifts in his seat. He’s growing hard in his sweatpants, the material not forgiving in any way, but he can’t really focus on that when Harry’s looking at him so intensely.

 

“Want to have made you come at least twice before I get inside you. You’ll be so sensitive then, but you’ll come one more time, just as I do. Going to love you so hard, sweetheart.” Harry continues, voice just as quiet but getting more gruff with each word spoken.

 

“Shit, Harry.” Louis breathes, almost whining as his shifting causes the material of his clothes to brush against his cock.

 

Harry grins, whatever Gods are watching clearly have it out for Louis, because even his fucking _dimples_ are sexy to him right now. He’s screwed.

 

“Sorry.” Harry says, but his expression is anything but.

 

Louis huffs out a laugh, pulse racing under his skin as he shakes his head. “You really, _really_ don’t have to be.

 

The bell signaling the end of visitation rings all too soon, and Louis' still half hard by the time he's hugging Harry goodbye. Harry smells like mint, soap, and that vegan shampoo he was raving about twenty minutes ago. It all makes Louis smile, breathing him in, and the only thought on his mind is  _soon._

 

"I want you to think of me," Harry murmurs, lips brushing against his ear, "when you take care of that." 

 

Louis has no idea how his legs didn't give out on him right there. 

 

 

*

 

 

That night, Louis pulls his blankets over his head, shuffling down on the mattress and spreading his legs. His heart thumps louder, every beat echoing  _Harry, Harry, Harry,_ and it takes everything in him to stay quiet as he traces his fingertips over his chest, tweaking at a nipple on his way down to his cock. Zayn's breathing evened out around five minutes ago, and it takes a hell of a lot more than the rustling of sheets to wake him. Liam passed their cell a few moments ago, so Louis recons he's got another five minutes before the next patrol guard goes by. And boy does he intend to make the most of those five minutes. 

 

Though five years is more than enough time to stop jumping at everything that goes bump in the night, Louis hasn't gotten himself off in a while. He's so turned on after his meeting with Harry that he nearly lets out a sob of relief by the time he wraps his fingers around his length, giving himself a few strokes to take of the edge. The chill of his hands has long since made Louis flinch away from himself, and his strokes quicken as he sucks his lip into his mouth, biting down on it. The room fills with the soft sounds of skin on skin and uneven breathing, Louis' eyes are tightly shut and he turns his head, pressing his face as far as he can into the pillow as he lets out a soft whimper. 

 

Harry on his knees, looking up at him through long lashes with his mouth pink and swollen. Harry leaning over him, hair falling in curls around his face as his hips jerk forwards against Louis' own. Louis wraps one hand tighter around his cock, the other trailing over his balls, squeezing gently as his index trails over his premium. The tip presses against his hole, but he doesn't push in, too dry and most likely too tight to go about it without lube. Louis drags his finger over the pucker, both a tease and a promise of more to come, because he could be out of here this time next year. He lets out a moan, jerking himself quicker as his mouth falls open, and then he's coming -- strips of white painting his hand as he works his way through it. 

 

Louis falls back against his pillow, blanket falling away from his face as he breathes heavily, coming down from his high. His eyes land on the picture he has tacked against the wall near his bed; Harry, tongue tuck out as he pulls a face for the camera. It's the most recent selfie he was given, and it makes him smile as he lets the familiar ache of sleeping on a too-hard mattress settle back into his bones. Before he gets too comfortable, (or as comfortable as he's able to get), Louis forces himself to kick the covers off, shuffling over to the shared toilet and sink in his and Zayn's cell. He turns on the hot tap, sighing as the pipes groan before spurting lukewarm water. Washing his hands clean, Louis taps his bare feet against the cold concrete, trying not to shiver. It's April, yes, but surely it should be warmer than this during spring. After he's washed away any evidence of his wank, taken a piss, and washed his hands again, Louis rushes back to bed, ready to warm his feet up. As soon as the blanket is tucked under his chin, Louis hears the tell tale footfalls of Officer Fields turning the corner on his nightly patrol. 

 

It takes a few moments to calm his heartbeat, Louis closes his eyes and brings his knees up to his chest in order to preserve warmth. Tomorrow's another day, a new day, and one day closer to going  _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try to update more regularly. I promise I won't let it be another year.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, thank you for being so patient with me. I've tried to wrap it up realistically, they're not going to come out of this and be completely fine straight away, but they'll be okay nonetheless. 
> 
> Be sure to check the end notes for those loose threads!

 

 

A phone-call changes Harry's life on a Thurday. It's raining, a grey and drowsy may day in London, and Harry hunches his shoulders up to keep his ears warm as he takes the steps two at a time. His flat isn't far from the local tube stop, but he's already soaked through by the time a shaking hand manages to fetch his keys from his pocket and gets the door unlocked.

 

 

 

He pushes his hair back from his face, water droplets clinging to his eyelashes and the tip of his nose, and he almost chooses to ignore the ringing from the land-line by the TV. He's cold and wet, just wants to make a cup of tea and change into something that hasn't been made two shades darker from the rain.

 

 

 

“Hello?” He answers instead, all feeling gone from the tips of his pink fingers.

 

 

 

“Hello, am I speaking to Mr. Harry Styles?” asks a stranger, voice too crisp and polite for it to be a social call.

 

 

 

Harry frowns, pulling the phone away from his ear to check the caller ID. His eyes scan the area code and the first four digits before his heart freezes, skipping a beat before resuming far faster than is surely healthy.

 

 

 

“Yes, that's me. What's happened, is Louis okay? I can be there in half an hour if –”

 

 

 

“Mr. Tomlinson is fine. We have attempted to contact his first emergency contact, Mrs Tomlinson, however –”

 

 

 

“They're on holiday,” Harry mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his spare hand. “Spain... what's this about?”

 

 

 

“Mr Tomlinson's hearing was today, regarding the possibility of early release,”

 

 

 

Harry could feel his heart in his throat, suddenly the rain hitting the windows was the loudest sound, drowning out the voice on the other end of the phone. He pressed the plastic closer to his ear, as if he could be there now, begging to be told all the information he wasn't privy to, not being family.

 

 

 

“And?”

 

 

 

“And Inmate 033879 was granted a new release date of May 12th 2017\. Will you be available to collect Mr Tomlinson at 12:00 from reception –”

 

 

 

“ _Yes,_ ” Harry breathes, relief flooding through him. His knees buckle, and he wasn't sure how it happened, but Harry finds himself on the floor, leaning against the cold wall. Tears pricked at his eyes, six years – _six fucking years_ of waiting, of praying to whoever was listening that fate would show them some mercy, and it was happening. It was finally happening. “Yes of course. Oh my God. I'll be there. Please, can I – fuck, that's next Monday, oh my God. I'm still good to see him on Friday, yeah?”

 

 

 

“His visiting privileges remain the same until release, so yes,” replied the voice, and Harry doesn't know who it is, doesn't know whether it is the burly guard who always gives them the dirtiest look, or the younger one who sometimes seemed sympathetic, but Harry wants to hug them. Hell, he wants to shower them with gifts, wine and chocolate, anything to show how much these words mean to him – how much he knows they'll mean to Louis.

 

 

 

“Thank you,” he says, one hand cupped over his eyes. “Thank you so much,”

 

 

 

The voice on the other end clears their throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Not at all,” they murmur. “If there are no more questions, we will see you on the 12th.”

 

 

 

“The 12th, definitely, yeah. Thanks,” Harry says again, and hears the line go dead. He doesn't move, doesn't lower the phone for at least a few more minutes, letting the information wash over him. In less than a week, Louis would be here. He'd be in Harry's flat, on Harry's sofa, sleeping in Harry's bed. He cries, then, the tears that had been threatening to fall mixing with raindrops on his already damp cheeks.

 

 

 

“He's coming back,” he whispers, to nobody in particular. There was no reply (he'd be worried if there was), but suddenly the tall ceilings appeared less intimidating, the room less cold than it had been minutes before. Suddenly, his flat was a home.

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

“I can't believe it,” Louis grins, pulling the sleeves of his jumper up over his palms. “I was so sure I'd fucked it up. I thought I'd be lucky if they didn't add time on, but _fuck_ , they've cut so much,”

 

 

 

“You deserve it, mate,” Zayn smiles, looking to where Louis is sat across from him.

 

 

 

They're in the rec room, it's a free afternoon and Louis is glowing, having just heard back from the warden. Zayn, happy as he is for his cellmate, feels a soft pang of loneliness at the thought of Louis leaving him behind. Not that he isn't ecstatic – really fucking proud of how Louis had composed himself for his meeting – because he is, but Zayn has years left. Years, and Louis is sure to move on, find himself a new best friend – one that isn't fucked up from crime. He allows himself a small amount of sadness, but is sure not to let Louis see it. He's seen enough from his time in prison, given enough to this place, and Zayn won't take anything more from him. Not even his pity.

 

 

 

“I just... can't believe,” Louis rubs a hand over his face, three day old stubble making him seem far older than his simple twenty-six years. “I've got six days. Sort of crazy, six years and now....” he shakes his head, soft smile still playing at his mouth. “I couldn't have done it without you. At all,”

 

 

 

“You'd have been okay,” Zayn shrugs, stretching an arm over the back of the chair beside him. “You're tough enough,”

 

 

 

“I was wimp when I came in here, don't lie,” Louis laughs, the first genuine laugh that Zayn's managed to get out of him in a while. “Getting beat up every other week for looking at the wrong person,”

 

 

 

“Because you always looked like you were judging them!” Zayn harks, half rolling his eyes. “I mean take us, yeah? Arson and manslaughter,” he waves a hand towards himself, then towards Louis, “child abuse and registered sex offender,”

 

 

Louis had stopped flinching at the charges around the one year mark, especially since they were spat at him so frequently by the guards and his fellow inmates. That was before Zayn came along, of course, but even after they left a sour taste in his mouth. Like the morning after a bender, waking up to something foul that only went after five minutes of brushing and a long, cold drink of water. Only there wasn't any way to scrub away his charges – his file is permanent, something he couldn't spit into the sink and wash away by turning on the tap. He'd accepted that, eventually. The world is a cruel place, it refused to bend its will or even try to understand. Harry is a shining beacon of light, something rare in the pit that is England's judgemental streets, and Louis won't let anything come between the two of them if he can help it.

 

 

 

Zayn, though, has never been so straight with his crime. Not since that conversation in the courtyard, smoke curling between them. He'd dodged it for ages before that, changing the subject whenever Louis tried to bring it up ( _“I know you're not supposed to ask, I mean I read you're not, but like. What did you do, why are you here? You seem really chill,” / “Innocent, man. Just like every lying mother-fucker in here,”)_ and Louis had eventually let the subject drop. Zayn is still talking, saying how they were no different from the other inmates, not really, but Louis is finding it increasingly difficult to focus on the specifics.

 

 It was difficult to place those labels on Zayn, to process the fact that the person who pretty much saved him and been responsible for the death of someone else, however unintentional. Louis licked his chapped lips, studying Zayn's face. The latter shows no sign of realising his slip up, and Louis won't draw attention to it. They have all done things, inside prison or out, that they aren't proud of. It doesn't even take a minute before Louis shrugs it off, composing himself to listen. Zayn is his friend, and if he had learned nothing about loyalty from his time here, then – well, what had even been the point?

 

 

 

“We're all messed up people with messed up lives, trying to fit into a society that likes things nice and neat,” Louis says quietly, when Zayn had stopped comparing them to Bert – the guy who knowingly sold bad acid to a whole bunch of teenagers. “Or something,”

 

 

 

“You sound like them authors you like to read so much, all eloquent and shit,”

 

 

 

“Piss off,” Louis smiles, knowing that for Zayn, that meant that he agreed.

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

“He's been sleeping in a prison approved bunk for over half a decade,” Perrie says, throwing a ball made from elastic bands into the air and catching it, barely looking at what she was doing. “He's not going to stop and take note of the thread count when you finally get him into bed,”

 

 

 

Harry doesn't look up from where he's hunched over his laptop, looking at Egyptian cotton bedsheets online.

 

 

 

“I bet those Hogwarts ones from Primark will feel like silk to him after all that, stop fretting your pretty little head,” she continues, catching the ball another time.

 

 

 

Harry frowns but chooses to ignore the comment, instead opening a new tab and searching for silk bed sets.

 

 

 

“He's given up so much for me, P. I need it to be perfect,”

 

 

 

Perrie doesn't throw the ball again, instead she sets it down on the coffee table and takes a moment to look at her friend – really look at him. His knee hasn't stopped bouncing since he opened up his laptop and he's near enough bitten the entire free edge of his thumb nail off in his search. Perrie sighs.

 

 

 

“Babe, it'll be perfect because he's coming back to you. You've both waited so long for this, and you've _both_ given up a lot.”

 

 

 

She sits up properly, no longer sprawled across the length of the armchair that Harry had rescued from being skipped a few weeks previously. There was nothing wrong with it – sure, the faux velvet is worn, colour faded drastically from the vibrant blue it used to be, but it's comfortable. Extremely so; Harry has fallen asleep in it more than once since bringing it home, curled up with a cup of tea and a draft of his latest report for uni. Harry looks over at her now, eyes darting between her and the arm of the chair. Perrie raises an eyebrow.

 

 

 

“And you are _not_ getting rid of the chair,”

 

 

 

“I wasn't thinking --”

 

 

 

“Zip!” Perrie points at him accusingly, “You can't lie to me, yes you were and no you're not. He'll love it, like he'll love everything in here, because he loves _you_ ,”

 

 

 

Harry's shoulders sink with relief, he hadn't realised he had them hunched until Perrie's words really sink in. “You think so?”

 

 

 

Perrie regards him with a look. “I know so. And so do you,”

 

 

 

Harry smiles, ducking his head to look back at the screen, flush crawling up his neck. He's never shy about his affection for Louis, never hidden their relationship from his friends and definitely not from Niall or Perrie, the two who simply get him. His stomach had been in knots when they'd first gotten close, fearing not that she'd reject him after finding out, but that she'd judge the man he loved simply for loving him, but Perrie had given him a look – not too dissimilar to the one she was giving him now – and shrugged. “ _Each to their own,”_ she had said, scrolling through her FaceBook feed. _“As long as it's all consensual, I've got no place to judge you”._ It was then that Harry knew he'd found his rock away from home.

 

 

 

“Thanks,” he murmurs softly, finally allowing his body to relax.

 

 

 

Perrie shakes her head, lounging back into the chair cushions. “Not at all,”

 

 

 

Harry closes the laptop, but not before ordering a set of luxury cotton bedsheets and a pair of fluffy slippers to arrive the next day. There's a sale on, after all.

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

Harry's counted days before. He knows that there are 1440 minutes in a day and that although six days wasn't much, 8640 minutes would seem like a lifetime before he could wrap his arms around his love and never let him leave him for as long as he had ever again. Still, by the time he had only four days to go, Harry's anxious.

 

 

 

He's planned the route, has probably done it more than a thousand times over the years, but nevertheless makes a schedule. Which tubes to get, how often they come and go. How long it takes to get from the last stop to the prison. He's even booked a taxi to take them home, back to the flat, at 12:30. None of it makes the fact that Louis' coming home feel any more real. Harry's spent most of his teenage years with the knowledge that he's never going to be with anybody until he's in his mid twenties, knew that he'd wait for Louis and that – heaven forbid – anything should happen to them, he wouldn't get over it any time soon. But now... now he's going to have him, be able to touch him, kiss him, do everything they never could before in a matter of days. It makes Harry light-headed.

 

 

Every lecture he has to go to, every lab, every seminar drags on. The hour ones feel like three, the doubles feel like they take the whole day to pass by, but by the time they finish, it's still only the early afternoon and Harry's already exhausted. He's rarely looked so forward to crawling into bed, setting the alarms on his phone before passing out, because the sooner he sleeps the sooner he's a day closer to picking up his man.

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

“Your prose seems to lack passion,” Dr. Mendez accuses, looking at Harry's paper. “There's fact there, and a very detailed response to the stimulus, but I get the sense that you're distracted as you write. First you open with the complexity of the nervous system, then sidetrack to it's relation with the endocrine system before thoroughly explaining which aspect you're going to be focussing on. Everything has to flow, Harry, and this draft seems to be more of a confused explosion of words as opposed to a study into something you love,”

 

 

 

Harry nods, palms rubbing against his knees. “I get that, I have been distracted recently, I'm sorry. I didn't realise it was affecting my work,”

 

 

 

Mendez hums, turning the page over before highlighting another paragraph. “Anything you want to talk about? We are your tutors, Harry, but we hope one day to become your intellectual peers. Sometimes a problem shared is a problem halved, and halved may be enough to let you concentrate on your work. You're bright, don't let yourself slip,”

 

 

 

Biting the corner of his lip, Harry shakes his head, a hand running through his curls. “I'm fine, thank you. I mean, my – my boyfriend's coming home, he's been away for so long, I'm just...”

 

 

 

“You're anticipating that your life may be significantly different to when you last saw him, and that there may be some friction when it comes to settling back into the patterns you once had?” Mendez suggests, an open expression on his face.

 

 

 

Harry shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, maybe. No, no we love each other so much –”

 

 

 

“Not everything is a question of affection. A lot of relationships, though the people involved may still adore each other, break down simply because people grow up in different ways. Especially at your age. If you're concerned about this, then talk to your partner. Honesty can only ever help,”

 

 

 

Harry stares at Mendez for a moment, mouth parted and mind blank. Was he scared of what Mendez was saying he was scared of? Harry hadn't thought about it, hadn't wanted to think about the difficulties six years apart could do to a couple. He's only ever wanted the good, wanted Louis to have so much good in his life after being forced to go through so much bad, and God did he deserve something nice for a change. Harry cleared his throat,

 

 

 

“Thanks. So, erm, my thesis statement – I had a bit of trouble with subtlety, I think. Is that a problem when it comes to being graded?”

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

Louis' in the shower, heart pounding as he realises this is the last one he's going to take side by side with his block mates. He can feel the intrusive eyes of the guard on his body, stays facing the grotty tiled wall for as long as the spray of the water holds out because he's learned that privacy is a luxury in this place, but for some reason he's as nervous as he was his first time here, today. He wishes it could have been Liam on duty this morning, at least he allows him some dignity when it comes to washing and drying off, but it appeared that fate had bestowed upon him all the luck she was going to give this week. Not that Louis can find it in himself to complain too much, after all, tomorrow he'd be showering _in Harry's flat._

 

 

 

He closes his eyes, takes a moment to wonder if Harry likes his water hot or cold. Louis can't remember if that's something they've ever talked about; he's grown used to lukewarm water at best, uncomfortably cool on the average day but never hot, not like how Louis likes it. Or was his boy more of a bath person, a fan of bubbles and nice aromas as he relaxed from a hard days study? The water cuts out, leaving him bare and soapy. A harsh whistle interrupts his musings, and Louis jams the on button to rinse off as quickly as he can, knows that the whistle means they've only got a few more minutes before they're to be escorted back to their block, and if they're not dressed by the time the guard's ready to go, then they're in for it. He's got less than 24 hours before he's out of here for good, and he's not going back to Harry with bruises that he'd have to hide. He doesn't want to hide anything from Harry, not after tomorrow.

 

 

 

“Inmates! This is your final warning, you have three minutes,” the guard – McLewin, today – shouts.

 

 

 

Louis steps back, mindful of the people around him, all in varying states of nudity. He grabs his towel, still partially damp from yesterday, and begins to quickly rub his legs, his torso, everywhere as fast as he can. He's dressed and pulling on his shoes by the time the whistle blows again and a line begins to form by the door. Louis gets in it, staring blankly ahead and ignoring the commotion behind him. His hair is wet, water dripping onto his shoulders and the collar of his grey prison issued jumper, but he's in line. There's a new kid who isn't. He's half dressed, tracksuit bottoms and shoes on but shirt off, and McLewin approaches him cockily, all six feet of swagger as he begins to clap his baton against his spare hand.

 

 

 

“I said time's up,” McLewin growled, and the kid looks up, eyes wide.

 

 

 

“Right, yeah, sorry. Just a sec –”

 

 

 

“Inmate,” McLewin shouts, towering above the boy. “If you are not in that line in TEN SECONDS, I will make you regret your subordination. Ten, nine...”

 

 

 

The kid squeaks, pulls his plain white tee over his head and grabs his jumper. He trips over his own feet as he rushes to the back of the line, falls onto the wet floor hard, the knees of his bottoms soaking up the dirty water.

 

 

 

Louis closes his eyes. 24 hours, less than 24 hours, this kid isn't his problem.

 

 

 

He ignores the cry of surprise, the sound of something hard hitting something an unmoving surface. 1400 minutes and he's gone, out of this place forever. Everyone has time to do, and everyone learns.

 

 

 

 

He sees the kid later, hunched over his table at dinner, flinching when someone slams their tray down too hard. He'll be okay, Louis thinks, as he tries to assuage his guilt. It's best to learn early.

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

Harry doesn't sleep that night, laying awake as he watches the minutes tick by on the electric alarm clock. He doesn't actually use it, has it simply so he doesn't blind himself as he checks his phone for the time whenever he wakes up unexpectedly, but tonight it taunts him. It's 03:56am, in about four hours his mobile will go off, his 8:00am alarm set to wake him up so he can shower, make a fresh pot of coffee and prepare lunch ready for when he brings Louis home. He's exhausted but his chest is uncomfortably tight, waiting for the shoe to drop. It's too good to be true, and he won't believe that they've been given this, something good, until he can touch Louis freely in their own space.

 

 

 

Rolling onto his back, Harry sighs, staring at the ceiling. The shadows make shapes almost instantly, figures creeping above him, ready and waiting. Letting his head drop to the side, Harry imagines Louis laying beside him, eyes closed as he rests. He always had such long eyelashes, Harry hopes they're as he remembers them, delicate with a simple beauty. Reaching out, Harry tries to rationalise the pang of disappointment which swells as his fingers splay across the sheets, finding them empty and cold. They won't be for too much longer, and he finds comfort in this. He's waited, he's done so much waiting, he can manage these last few hours.

 

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

Whether he manages to sleep or not, Harry's not sure, the sun creeps in through his blinds at around five thirty, and if Harry had rested then it's definitely fitfully, drifting in and out of consciousness with the dawn chorus. By the time his alarm goes off, he's already in the shower, eyes closed against the warm spray of water. He wants to look perfect, needs to look good, smell good, be good. Louis deserves to come home to someone who's at least made an effort, he thinks, as he stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot from a lack of sleep, but he splashes his already wet face with cold water, hoping to reduce the puffy nature of his under-eyes.

 

 

 

He brushes his teeth, takes a piss, and washes his hands.

 

 

 

“Today's the day,” he whispers to himself, a blinding smile stretching across his face.

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

“Here,” Louis tosses the book onto Zayn's bunk, narrowly missing the other man. It lands beside him and Zayn picks it up, regarding the title with interest.

 

 

 

“You've read this a fair few times,” he says, turning it over to read the blurb.

 

 

 

“Gatsby's a classic,” Louis shrugs, re-arranging the few titles he's taking with him in the box he'd been given. His pictures are already neatly packed away, kept safe and unfolded between the pages of the Phantom of the Opera, and now it's just a case of waiting until Liam comes to get him.

 

 

 

His palms are uncomfortably sweaty.

 

 

 

“Yeah, but you love it,” Zayn looks up, searching Louis' face for something. What, Louis wasn't sure, but he smiled reassuringly, moving closer so he could place a hand on Zayn's shoulder.

 

 

 

“And you're my best mate. I wouldn't have chosen anyone else to go through this with, so I want you to have it. Use it as fucking toilet paper if you want, but seriously, keep it. It's my way of making sure you don't forget your favourite cell mate,” Louis says, squeezing Zayn's shoulder.

 

 

 

Zayn isn't sentimental and he definitely isn't a crier, so he swallows that lump in his throat and stands, wrapping his arms around Louis' shoulders. “As if I could forget you,” he mumbles, allowing himself this moment before he loses him, lets him go like he has every other person he was stupid enough to let himself care about.

 

 

 

Louis _is_ sentimental, so he doesn't bother to hide the fact that his eyes have glossed over, tears threatening to fall.

 

 

“And they'll be none of that,” Zayn warns half heartedly. “You need to grab life by the balls, live it. See that new X-Men film for me, I think there's a few of them now actually. Let me know what it's like,”

 

 

 

“Of course,” Louis nods, wiping at his cheeks. “I'll send you a poster, too, if you want,”

 

 

 

“You better,” Zayn grins, letting go. He takes a step back and lets his eyes roam over his friend for a second, perhaps a second too long, as he feels pride swell deep inside of him. “You've done so good here, mate. I'm glad I met you,”

 

 

 

“Thanks,” Louis says quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It's been one hell of a ride, hasn't it?”

 

 

 

“Yeah,” Zayn nods, “It has.”

 

 

 

There's a knock on the wall by the cell gate, and the two look up to see Liam, smiling kindly.

 

 

 

“Someone at reception wants to see you,” he says with a grin, keys dangling over his finger.

 

 

 

Louis' heart palpitates, an excited grin spreading across his face.

 

 

 

“Well then, rude to keep them waiting, ain't it?” Zayn smiles, clapping Louis on the shoulder.

 

 

 

Louis nods quickly, lost for words. He hugs Zayn tightly and it's over too soon for Zayn's liking, but Louis' happiness is contagious so the smile doesn't slip from his face. Liam picks up Louis' box, handing it over to him so Louis' doesn't have to think about what to do with his hands on the walk down. Louis smiles in thanks, looking over his shoulder as he leaves the cell. It had been his home for six years, had seen all his sleepless nights, his tears, his frustrated wanks and ill sweats. He couldn't wait to leave it behind.

 

 

 

The walk to reception seems to take at least three times as long as he remembers it being all those years ago. Louis wants to ask Liam how Harry seemed to him – the two had been so excited during visitation, they kept talking over each other, finishing each others' sentences with fast chatter and _what if_ s turning into _maybe_ s and _soon_ s, that he barely had a chance to ask for an update on Harry's life. How was uni going, what about that part time job he'd got? And his friends, had they been going out recently? Had Harry learned how to cure his hangovers, or avoid them, yet? He couldn't form the words, eyes darting down each corridor, towards the rec room, the laundry, the shower block... he took it all in, promising himself he'll never come back. Not to this.

 

 

 

And then they turn the final corner. Then, Liam uses his security pass to open the large metal doors, an echoing buzz that Louis has heard only a handful of times filling the silence between them. Liam opens the door a fraction, looking back at Louis.

 

 

 

Louis met his eyes, nerves clinging together in his stomach.

 

 

 

“Ready?” Officer Payne asked gently.

 

 

 

He'd wait if Louis said no. He'd give him a moment to compose himself, to push down the fears and doubts. How was he going to get a job? They'll ask if he's ever been convicted of a crime, they'll want to know what it was, want to know how much time he served and why. They'll never be able to adopt children, Louis will never be able to pick his little sisters up from school.

 

 

“Yes,” Louis swallows.

 

 

 

Liam pushes the door open fully, holding it open for Louis to pass through. And there he is, _oh God,_ there he is. His hair looks so soft and shiny, curls styled to the side, and he's leaning against the wall in a devil may care way but pushes himself up the moment the door swings open, eyes wide and earnest. Louis' never seen Harry in a leather jacket but he looks so good Louis could cry. Might still, if Harry keeps looking at him like that.

 

 

 

“Sign here,” the receptionist says. She's an unimpressive person, looking like she'd rather be anywhere than where she currently is. Harry pulls a face and Louis tries to hide is smile, redirecting his gaze to focus on the release paperwork. There's a list of helpful information, of job and parole centres which can help him get back on his feet. Louis signs where he needs to, bouncing on the spot as he waits for the receptionist to make a copy for him to take home with him. When she finally ( _finally_ ) hands it over, along with a small clear back of personal items which he'd had when he was brought in, he's almost burned through his patience, wants to run over to Harry and cling on tightly.

 

 

He nearly snatches the paperwork and the bag, remembering his manners at the last minute. Liam smiles.

 

 

 

“You're a free man, Louis Tomlinson,” he says fondly, clapping Louis on the shoulder. “If you're ever in the Brixton area, let me know.”

 

 

 

“I will,” Louis says, practically giddy.

 

 

 

Liam's still smiling when he takes a step back and nods over to Harry. “I won't keep you, then,”

 

 

And that's it. That's six years, four months, three weeks. That's how long he's waited.

 

 

 

Harry's rooted to the spot, waiting for Louis to come to him, but he's playing with his fingers and clearly nervous despite the sheer joy radiating from him in that moment. Louis doesn't want him to be nervous, hates seeing it in his boy, and it's then that he thinks _fuck it_. Ignoring their audience – Mel, he remembers the receptionist is called, Liam, and at least three others waiting for God knows what – he strides over to Harry, blue eyes locked onto those beautiful, beautiful greens, and throws his hands around Harry's neck. Harry lets out a cry, something mixed between relief and pure bliss, and buries his face in Louis' shoulder.

 

 

 

“I love you so much,”

 

 

 

“I've missed you, Christ how I've missed you,”

 

 

 

They talk over each other, but it's okay. Louis pulls back only to cup Harry's face, taking in the shine to his eyes and the way the tip of his nose is red. Harry looks back, eyes raking over Louis' whole face. It's as though they haven't seen each other in months, despite it only being a matter of days. They haven't had the time, haven't been able to savour each other like they can now. Harry wants to kiss him but doesn't want to stop drinking in the moment, wants to save the way that Louis' looking at him right now – like he's the best damn thing he's ever seen. Louis makes the first move, standing on his tip toes to press his lips gently against Harry's own. It's careful, sweet and savoured; Harry follows Louis' lips when he pulls back, a single tear escaping from his closed eyes.

 

 

 

“How about we go home?” Louis whispers, thumbs stroking across Harry's cheeks, catching the stray tear.

 

 

Harry nods, opening his eyes with a smile.

 

 

 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, just for the two of them. “Let's do that,”

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

Their taxi's on time and Harry doesn't let go of Louis' hand, not even to get into the car through the other side. Rather, he leads the way, sliding across the leather seats and encourages Louis to follow. Louis climbs in after him, face unable to hide the pleasure at how comfortable the seats are after years on hard plastic and thin mattresses.

 

 

 

“Where to, lads?” the driver asks, eyeing them though the rear-view mirror. Louis swallows, he has no clue what Harry's address is, knows only that it's close enough to uni for Harry to be able to get there waking up only half an hour before a seminar, if he rushes, and around the corner from an underground station.

 

 

 

“Er,” Harry bucked his seatbelt and reaches over to check Louis', “Old Compton, please,”

 

 

 

The driver nods and puts the car into gear, backing away from the prison gates. Louis' heart is pounding, certain that any time now a guard will come running out, shouting that there had been a mistake, that Louis isn't supposed to leave. He's got his papers on his lap but even the bold black and white ink isn't enough to convince him that this is it, this is real.

 

 

 

“It's behind us,” Harry leans over, whispering in Louis' ear. Louis glances out of the window, sees the prison turrets become smaller and smaller, can't read the writing on the signage directing guests and transit vans. They're leaving.

 

 

 

Louis has to bide his lip to stop from crying, but a small whimper escapes him nonetheless. Harry's expression is soft and he wraps an arm around him, and Louis lets himself bury his face into Harry's shoulder. The scent of clean leather and tea tree shampoo washes over him, through him, and slowly it pushes out the anxiety, allows his heart to slow. Not back to a normal pace – Louis doesn't think it'll do that for a while yet – but enough. He breathes out, breath tickling Harry's neck, and Harry rests his head atop of Louis' own, eyes drifting shut.

 

 

 

Their taxi navigates them through the busy London roads, horn honking more frequently the closer to central they get, but they pay it no mind. Nothing could ruin this moment.

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

“It's not much,” Harry says nervously, turning his key in the lock, “but it's –,”

 

 

 

“I'm sure it's perfect,” Louis says fondly, picking nervously at his nails.

 

 

 

He pushes the door open, lets Louis go in ahead of him, and waits. The air in the room is cold, Harry had opened all the windows that morning to air the place out, but had hoped it would return to its usual cosy temperature by the time they were back. By the front door there's a cork board, pinned full of letters, postcards and photographs. There's a picture of Harry on his 18th, wide grin in place and an intoxicated haze to his eyes. Niall's next to him, holding two suspiciously pink drinks, and Louis smiles. It felt like home, somehow.

 

 

 

He walks further into the flat, Harry following behind him, closing the door. The living room and kitchen are open plan, it's as spacious as a small budget apartment in London can be, and Louis gingerly places his papers and box of personal items on the table.

 

 

 

“I love it,” Louis says, turning to face Harry.

 

 

 

Harry visibly relaxes, grin spreading across his face.

 

 

 

“I thought about it a lot, bringing you home,” He says, taking a step closer. “Always hoped you'd like the place, 'cause in my mind it's always been ours, y'know?”

 

 

 

Louis wants to swoon. His stomach, loudly interrupting, obviously wants to ruin the moment. Louis blushes and Harry smiles, telling Louis to take a seat as he rustles up something for lunch.

 

 

 

Louis perches on the couch across from the arm chair, looking around. There's so much to take in, so much that's purely Harry and a lot that he can tell is inspiration from friends. There's a ceramic pot on the bookcase, (badly) hand-painted in a way that's almost deliberate. He searches a memory, thinks he recalls something Harry had told him about a friend gifting it to him when they'd finally passed an art module, insisting it be put on show. Of course Harry would love it, placing it proudly in the open; _he has a habit of loving ugly things,_ Louis can't help but think, and scalds himself as soon as the thought appears. Cora had spent a lot of time with him on his self deprecation, Louis knows it's not healthy, and yet – and _yet_ – years of being told you're bad are difficult to scrub away.

 

 

 

Harry takes the pasta bake he'd prepared earlier out of the fridge, bungs it in the oven for ten minutes and sets an alarm. He'd thought about this moment for so long, wanted it, longed for it, and now it's here. It's happening, and Harry feels so selfish, so ungrateful, for the fact he doesn't know what to say. He clears his throat, turning.

 

 

 

“Would you like a drink?”

 

 

 

“Yes, please,” Louis nods, hands rubbing his knees. “Er, do you have tea?”

 

 

 

For a moment Harry's thrown back to being fourteen, curled up on Louis' sofa as Louis brings out two mugs, both hot and filled with English Breakfast (“ _The_ only _way to drink it, obviously”_ ) _._ He smiles, nods, and sticks the kettle on.

 

 

 

“I always keep it in,” he says, reaching for his favourite two mugs. One's a koala, hanging off a tree, rough brushstrokes spelling out 'Koala-Tea Cuppa'. The other's simpler, elegant orange script stating 'tea makes me happy', and Harry hopes that Louis likes novelty. “Make it just how you taught me,”

 

 

 

“I haven't had tea since.... _since,”_ Louis says, and nearly kicks himself for bringing it up. Harry's takes it in his stride, though, nodding. There's no pity to his gaze when his eyes finally ( _finally_ ) lock onto Louis', only warmth and adoration. “Nearly forgot how I like it,” he whispers, hoarse.

 

 

 

“Two sugars, milk enough to look like a werther's original,” Harry says, and it's rough, like he's trying his very best to keep it together but could unravel at any moment.

 

 

 

“That's it,” Louis breathes, and drops his gaze.

 

 

 

Harry strains the teabags, throwing them into the bin when finished, and leaves the tea-spoon in the sink for later. He brings the mugs over to the coffee table and takes a seat next to Louis, feeling like their first date all over again. Then, he laughs.

 

 

 

Louis looks at him, watches the way his dimples appear and how his eyes crease up. He can't help but smile, the sound of Harry's laughter contagious, and after a moment joins in, relief flooding through him.

 

 

 

“Oh god,” Harry says, wiping at the corners of his eyes.

 

 

 

“Who'd have thought we'd actually make it this far?” Louis shakes his head, warming his hands around his mug.

 

 

 

“I did,” Harry says gently. “Always, even when I was being a dick about it. I always knew we'd pull through,”

 

 

 

Louis looks at him, mouth open slightly. “Yeah,” he almost whispers, voice loud in the otherwise silent apartment. “I think I did, too.”

 

 

 

Harry takes his other hand, thumb brushing over the cold skin. “We're gonna be alright,” he says, so sincere that Louis has no choice but to believe him.

 

 

 

Louis swallows hard and nods, hand squeezing Harry's. Harry squeezes back.

 

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

They go to bed early that night, both weary from a long and emotionally exhausting day. Louis can't help but moan when he lies down, hands fisting the duvet either side of him. Harry feels warmth curl within him, pushes the feeling down because Louis' tired, although he'd probably fight Harry on that one if Harry were to push him into the mattress and put his mouth on him now. Harry bites his lip and gets out a pair of soft cotton pyjamas from his chest of draws.

 

 

 

“These are yours,” he says, dropping them lightly onto the bed, “They might be a little big, though – I got your old size,”

 

 

 

“I like oversized,” Louis blinks his eyes open, looking at Harry wantonly. Harry swallows, has to do everything to stop himself jumping on Louis then and there, and strips off his shirt.

 

 

 

Louis' eyes drift towards the tattoos on his bicep – a heart and three nails. He's never seen them before, knew Harry to be inked but didn't know he'd done it. Harry looks down, following his gaze.

 

 

 

“Ah, yeah. Well, the heart I got when I turned 18. I was going to surprise you with it – I guess I sort of forgot?” Harry blushes awkwardly. “Sort of a reminder to wear your heart on your sleeve, even if it can get hurt, because love's always worth it,” he reaches up, thumb tracing the curve of the heart before moving onto the first nail. He's bashful now, cheeks vibrant and smile in full swing. He murmurs something and Louis doesn't quite catch it, has to sit up and frown to try and listen harder.

 

 

 

“What was that?”

 

 

 

“ _Nail gun,_ ” Harry grins, flexing.

 

 

 

Louis would laugh, still wants to, but Harry does have guns. _Fuck_ , he's got muscles and how did Louis never noticed that when he lost his baby weight, he turned into an Adonis? He'd always found Harry hot, always attractive, but he was fit – literally.

 

 

 

“Come here,” Louis says, throat dry. He reaches out, hand hanging in the air between them, and Harry kneels on the bed, begins crawling over to his man.

 

 

 

Louis' hand slides over his (broad, holy shit,) shoulder, comes to rest at the nape of his neck, pulling Harry down into an open mouthed kiss. Harry's mouth is warm and slick and Louis feels downright filthy, being able to do this now. Harry's hands are under his shirt, splayed across the soft skin of his stomach, and Louis tilts his head nipping at Harry's bottom lip. The kiss fades into something calmer, savoured, until Harry pulls back, ending it with a chaste peck.

 

 

 

He brushes their noses together and Louis' smiling deeply, using muscles he hasn't in so long his face hurts. Harry licks his lips, eyes flickering between Louis' own and his eyes, pupils blown.

 

 

 

“What do you want to do?” he whispers, hips already pressed flush against Louis' own.

 

 

 

It's Louis' turn to stare at Harry, now, looking for something in the depths of a jade pool.

 

 

 

“I don't know,” he says, and it's so vulnerable, scared almost. Louis' hands are locked together, resting behind Harry's neck, and they're shaking. “Is that okay?”

 

 

 

Harry nods, wants Louis to know more than anything that there's nothing Harry wants more than for Louis to be comfortable, to feel safe.

 

 

 

“Of course it is,” he says, already lifting his hips away from Louis'. “It's perfect,”

 

 

 

Louis relaxes, hands releasing to slide down Harry's back, resting in the dip at the bottom of his spine. His fingertips brush Harry's waistband and Harry kisses him gently, carefully, letting Louis lead.

 

 

 

They stay like that for several minutes, exchanging lazy kisses as Harry's hands trace patterns into Louis' ribs. They're too prominent for his liking, Louis' lost too much weight, but that's something they can work on together. Louis draws back, forehead resting against Harry's and he breaths out, eyes closed.

 

 

 

“Are you tired?” Harry asks, and Louis barely nods, tilting his head down and then up again, against the pillows. “Okay,” Harry kisses his nose.

 

 

 

He pulls back, letting Louis' sleepy whimper go straight to his heart, as he dims the lights. Louis changes lethargically into his pyjamas, sliding under the sheets as Harry returns, shirtless, but in a pair of pyjama shorts. Once in bed they face each other, feet tangling beneath the covers. Harry ignores how cold Louis' feet are against his own, secretly revelling in the fact that they can have this, now.

 

 

 

Harry's grown so much since they were last like this, was the little spoon so long ago, and Louis wants to know what it'll be like to have those strong arms wrapped around him but doesn't want to have to look away to do it. He sighs, reaching out to slide his fingers between Harry's own.

 

 

 

“I love you,” Harry whispers into the dark, drinking in the shadow of Louis' face.

 

 

 

“And I love you” Louis says, quietly, almost like a promise.

 

 

 

There, in the dark, his heart settles.

 

 

-*-

 

 

 

Harry rolls over, hand falling into empty space. Something's wrong, enough to draw him into consciousness, but it takes a moment for everything to fall into place. The oven's off, he definitely locked the door because Louis asked to make sure – _Louis._

 

 

 

Opening his eyes, Harry realises he's alone. The other half of the bed is warm and he comforts himself knowing that Louis hasn't been up long – the clock reads 03:34, they've been asleep for around five hours, but it's still dark out. He sits up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed and pads towards the door, rubbing his eyes.

 

 

 

Atop of the chair are Louis' day clothes, folded neatly in perfect squares. It's odd and shouldn't make Harry sad, but Harry remembers Louis throwing jeans and jumpers together in a pile without a second thought. Neatness and Louis never went together, not before.

 

 

 

Harry doesn't sigh, but he does leave the bedroom, turning into the main room. Louis' there, illuminated by the refrigerator light, taking slow sips from a tall glass of water. He doesn't jump when he sees Harry, but he does curl in on himself, looking timid.

 

 

 

“I didn't mean to wake you,” he apologises, setting the glass down.

 

 

 

Harry shakes his head, running a hand through his messy curls. “You didn't, don't worry,”

 

 

 

Louis smiles shyly, offering his glass to Harry. He accepts it with thanks, taking a deep swig before passing the glass back to Louis.

 

 

 

“I don't think my room was half this size,” Louis muses quietly, looking around the kitchen section of the area. “There were the bunks, mine and Zayn's, there,” he gestures vaguely towards the washing machine, “'n' the toilet and sink about here,” he moves his hand closer towards them before letting it drop, shrugging. “Couldn't do anything if I woke up at night... the tap waters barely drinkable, either,” he jokes, and Harry cracks a smile.

 

 

 

They stand there for a minute or two, both lost in their own thoughts. Through the walls they hear the neighbours front door slam, drunken laughter filling the hallway outside.

 

 

 

“Dance with me,” Harry asks, but it's less a question as he places one hand on Louis' waist, offering up the other.

 

 

 

It's too dark to tell, but Louis thinks Harry might be blushing. “There's no music,”

 

 

 

“So?” Harry smiles, and Louis takes his hand, letting himself be pulled closer.

 

 

 

They sway together, Louis lets Harry lead because he hasn't danced since his school prom ten years ago. Harry's not much of a dancer, either, let's them move lazily in the mid night silence.

 

 

 

“How are you feeling?” Harry asks, lips brushing Louis' ear as he speaks.

 

 

 

Louis rests his head fully against Harry's shoulder, their joined hands pinned between their bodies. He feels boneless, like he's carrying himself in zero gravity, head heavier than it should be in any normal atmosphere. He feels like the last six years haven't happened, save for in his nightmares; like he should be waking up next to Harry and living in this apartment for the rest of his life. He doesn't know how to tell Harry any of this, doesn't know how to tell him how much of a dream this is in a way he'll really understand. In the end he settles for something they both want to hear, something he knows to be true and knows Harry deserves, more than anyone.

 

 

“Like we're finally getting our happily ever after,” he admits, body moving seamlessly with Harry's own.

 

 

 

Harry deserves it and Louis thinks that maybe, after everything, he's earned it too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the American audience, Louis' prom was ten years ago because we have our leavers 'do (in most state schools) in year 11 at age 16, not 18.
> 
>  
> 
> Zayn's story goes as such: he was dating Perrie, there was an incident in which she was continuously verbally abused and threatened by an asshole. Zayn thought he'd teach this guy a lesson, threaten him so he'd leave them (mostly her) alone, by putting a firework through his post-box. Unfortunately, the guy was out and his baby sister was home alone. The firework started a fire which she died in. Zayn was charged for arson and manslaughter because of this, and he breaks up with Perrie so that she isn't held back by him. 
> 
>  
> 
> Louis' family will come back from holiday exhausted, check their answering machine and find a message from the prison (before their phone-call with Harry), and then one from Harry and Louis. Jay will cry with happiness and Louis will meet his newest siblings, a baby boy and girl that he's never been able to see before now.
> 
>  
> 
> Anne will never be able to forgive Louis for disrupting Harry's childhood, but she does grow to like him as a person. Her, Harry, and Louis have dinner together twice a month, and Anne eventually gives Louis Harry's grandfathers wedding band to propose with. Louis proposes when Harry graduates from med school; Harry says yes.


End file.
